The Adventure of the Missing Priest
by Mysterylover17
Summary: A member of the clergy has disappeared. Two bodies have gone missing from their graves and only a Bible verse and chapter remain behind. Can Sherlock Holmes decipher the clues and bring these two seemingly unrelated incidents to a successful conclusion?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello all! It's been quite some time since I've uploaded something onto here. However, I'm back after a long hiatus, and very happy to be writing again. Although I'm not in the habit of dedicating stories, my Watson is so Edward Hardwicke inspired, that I have to dedicate this to his memory. So my dear readers, come join me now, in the sitting room of Baker Street where our favorite duo is once again listening to the desperate tale of a client. As usual, if you like what you read, or if you hate what you read, please drop a review. Thanks so much, and happy reading! I hope you enjoy my latest installment. **

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><p>As I sit at my desk, feeling the fire's warmth at my back, I struggle to make sense of the strange events of the past twelve hours. I try not to think of my dearest friend in the next room, lying in a drug induced sleep furnished by my own hand, and I try not to recall how close we both came to losing our lives. Holmes has, on more then one occasion, chided me for starting a narrative in the middle rather then in the beginning, and I suppose that is what I am currently doing, but since the public shall never see this account, I have no reason to apologize for its structure. I am merely using it to better understand all that has happened, and to root myself more firmly in my every day reality.<p>

Holmes and I started on this queer journey a fortnight ago during one of the worst storms England has ever seen. Rain lashed at our tightly snibbed windows and the thunder boomed so loudly that, for a moment, I swore I was back on the battlefield of Maiwand. My friend stood, with his back to our windows, his violin tucked firmly beneath his chin, filling our sitting room with the melodies of Dorvak. I was content sitting in my own chair, pipe in hand, merely listening to the crescendos and decrescendos of his music. My own practice had been extremely busy as of late with a new strain of influenza raging across London, and I was glad for the peaceful atmosphere of our sitting room.

"I daresay Watson," Holmes said, stopping his song mid-note, "are you expecting company?"

I raised my eyebrows. "No, why do you ask?"

"I believe I heard a cab pull up to the curb."

Although I could personally hear nothing over the gale, I knew my friend had an extremely acute sense of hearing and did not doubt his observation. I groaned, however, because in such weather it only meant a client or a patient, and both would require heading out into the storm, a prospect I was not altogether fond of.

"I can't imagine anyone wanting to consult you on a night like this."

"Perhaps it is a friend of Mrs. Hudson?"

I shook my head in the negative. "She retired early this evening. I gave her something for her rheumatism when I came in from my rounds." The pealing of the bell interrupted any further speculation. "We'll find out soon enough," I said, vacating my chair. "I'll go."

I limped down the seventeen steps to the front door. When I opened it, I found a man standing before me, clad in all black with a cloth cap as his only protection against the storm. "Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes at home?" His voice carried the slightest trace of an Irish brogue.

"Yes, do come in before you catch your death." I stepped aside, allowing him entrance into our small foyer.

"Thank you kindly sir," the stranger said. "You must forgive me for intruding upon you on such a night."

I nodded. "If you will come this way."

I led the man up our stairs to the sitting room. When I entered, Holmes rose languidly from his armchair.

"Ah thank you Watson." He fixed his gaze on the man standing next to me. "How may we be of service sir?"

The man instantly swept off his cap, revealing a shock of bright red hair. Nervously, he twisted the cloth between his hands. "My name sir, is Father Thomas Doyle."

"From Saint Mary's Church?"

The young priest jumped slightly. "You know of me then?"

"I have never heard of you until this moment," Holmes said. "Come, sit near the fire and warm yourself. Watson, a nip of brandy for the fellow."

"Then how do you know I come from Saint Mary's?"

"Your boots told me."

"My boots sir?"

Holmes waited to further explain himself until Father Doyle was comfortably seated on the settee. I hurried to the sideboard and poured the clergyman a measure of our finest brandy.

"Here," I pressed the glass into his less then steady hands.

"Thank you kindly sir," he said. After he finished his drink, I was heartened to see some color return to his sallow cheeks. "How sir, did my boots tell you from what parish I come?"

"On the instep of your right boot, a reddish clay is affixed. No where in London, save in the area around Saint Mary's Church, does a clay of such color exist."

"But might I have picked it up in my travels?"

Holmes favored the man with a small smile. "There is about three inches worth of clay there sir. Unless you traveled that area daily, there would be no such accumulation. Besides," Holmes added, "you are wearing a white collar which denotes you as a Catholic priest. There are no churches of that denomination in that area save for Saint Mary's."

The young priest looked at his boots and blushed so fiercely that it was difficult to discern where his face ended and his hair began. "That is quite clever sir," he said softly.

"Elementary. Now, my good sir, tell me what causes a priest of usually meticulous habits to neglect his boots in such a manner and leave the rectory in such haste that he travels in a raging storm with neither coat nor umbrella to consult me."

"You are correct sir, I did leave in a hurry. But you must understand sir, that this is a private matter." He looked warily in my direction.

"My friend and colleague Doctor Watson. You may speak as freely before him as you can before myself."

"I do beg your forgiveness Doctor," he said, "I meant no disrespect."

"Of course you didn't lad," I said, favoring him with a smile, "and none was taken."

He nodded. "I'm afraid, sirs, that the reason I'm here is a strange one. In fact, I shouldn't bother you with it at all, but my mind is so uneasy."

Holmes struck a match and lit his black briar pipe. "Pray, Father Doyle, be precise as to the details."

"Yesterday, Father O'Brien presided over the funeral mass of Violet and Mary Southerland."

At the mention of the name, I bowed my head.

"Watson?" It was Holmes' voice and it carried in it a note of concern.

"My patients," I said by way of explanation. "Twin nine year old girls. I treated them since they were born. By the time their family consulted me, there was little I could do for them." I shook my head hard to come out of my reverie. The pain of loosing them to influenza was still raw in my heart.

"I'm sorry to hear that Doctor," the priest said, reaching across the space and squeezing my hand. "But God does work in mysterious ways sir. I'm certain He had a reason—"

Holmes cleared his throat loudly. "While it is very sad that two children have died," he said looking from me to the young priest, "I fail to see what it has to do with me."

Once again the young clergyman blushed. "I'm sorry Mr. Holmes. As I said before, Father O'Brien was in charge of their funeral mass. He's a big man, Father O'Brien, very powerful yet very gentle. He was almost reduced to tears himself saying that mass. But he was a great comfort to their family. He painted for them the most glorious picture of God's love. They took strength from that service, the family did.

'Afterwards, when the first shovelfuls of dirt fell upon the caskets, Father O'Brien returned to the rectory with a heavy heart. He said little to any of us, and at about nine o'clock, he took his hat from the peg and left. He has not returned.

'This wouldn't have been strange, Mr. Holmes, except he missed morning mass. And he loves saying the Masses, he does. It's his favorite duty as a priest, that and serving the poor."

"When was he last seen?"

"About seven thirty this evening. By the groundskeeper Mason, near the grave of the Southerland girls."

"Now Father," Holmes leaned forward in his chair. "While I find your missing brethren of some interest, it is not what drove you into the storm with such haste."

"No sir, it's only part of it."

"And the other?"

"Around eight o'clock this evening, our groundskeeper came to the rectory in quite a state. The man was barely insensible with fright. It took both myself and Father Michaels to calm him. He said that the Southerland grave had been dug up and that the bodies of the two girls were missing. Standing over the empty grave, was Father O'Brien. But he didn't look like himself, Mason said. Mind you sirs, these are not my words, but according to Mason, Father O'Brien looked dead.

'Of course both Father Michaels and I ran into the graveyard and everything was just as the groundskeeper said."

"You saw Father O'Brien?"

The priest shook his head. "No sir. We just saw the open grave and found this." He removed from his pocket a sopping sheet of paper which he handed Holmes.

"Where was this exactly?"

"Affixed to the cross, which was the temporary grave marker."

"Affixed how?"

"A simple nail."

"Do you have the nail?"

"No sir. It's still in the cross."

"I see," Holmes carefully unfolded the paper and cursed under his breath as it started to come apart in his hands. "Confound it all!" Quickly he stood and approached his chemical bench where he set the paper down.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Quiet," he barked. Working carefully with his tweezers, he finally unfolded the wet paper. "Luke 22:3. Written in a standard pen. The water has caused the ink to smudge and drip in several places." He took his glass to it and carefully pored over the paper. "It appears to be of average quality paper, purchasable on Bond Street or in any number of small stores. The ink seems to be of average quality, although he—yes the writing is certainly masculine—needed to charge his pen towards the end. You will see here Watson, how the three is barely legible. There is a thumbprint on the left upper corner, though whether it's yours or his I cannot be sure at the moment. How did you take the paper off the cross?"

"I honestly don't recall sir. I know I pulled it."

"From the bottom? Or from the top? Think, this could be very important!"

Father Doyle was silent for a few moments. "I grabbed it from the right side sir, because that's where I was standing. You can see how it ripped."

Holmes nodded. "Then this thumb print could be his." Holmes once again approached his chemical bench. He carefully hung the document on a small piece of rope and began mixing chemicals into a beaker.

"What is—"

I raised my hand to silence the priest and watched my friend in fascination. He muttered softly to himself in French as he placed a beaker directly over his Bunsen burner, holding it in place with his severely blackened tongs. Using his free hand, he wafted the fumes towards the wet document. After several long minutes a bluish tint began to form over the left corner of the paper.

"Holmes, what the devil?"

"This is the first time you've seen this in the history of criminal science," Holmes said, with no small measure of pride in his voice. "We are successfully raising the print from the paper, by using my own special compound."

"Remarkable," I said.

I continued to watch in silence, as the blue tint grew darker. After about two quarters of an hour, the area where Holmes had first spied the fingerprint was a dark shade of blue. Carefully, Holmes turned the Bunsen burner off and removed the document from the rope.

"Now, Father if you wouldn't mind doing me a favor?"

"Anything sir."

Holmes removed an inkpad from his desk and a plain piece of foolscap. "If you would oblige me to place both of your thumbs on this inking surface and then on the foolscap?"

"Certainly sir."

Father Doyle rose from his seat and approached my friend's desk. He quickly did as Holmes asked. Within moments, Holmes had his glass out and was comparing the three prints.

"We can, with a great deal of certainty," Holmes said, setting his magnifying glass aside, "assume that the thumb print on this page is not yours."

Father Doyle nodded. "I'm glad to hear you say so."

"Now Father, what does Luke chapter twenty two verse three mean to you? Watson, if you could make a long arm and hand me our copy of the Bible, I would be much obliged."

I did as Holmes asked, and after rummaging through our bookshelf, came upon a much-battered copy of the Bible, a book I didn't even know occupied our rooms.

"I believe," Father Doyle said as Holmes began thumbing through the yellowing pages of the holy book, "that chapter refers to the Passover—the last supper and it deals with Judas' betrayal."

"Yes yes," Holmes said absently. "Ah here it is—chapter twenty two verse three. 'Then entered Satan into Judas surnamed Iscariot, being of the number of twelve.' Is that significant in any way to you Father?"

Father Doyle nodded. "It's the beginning of Judas' betrayal of Christ. It then goes on to say that Judas spoke with various priests and scribes as to how to best betray Christ Jesus. A price was decided and Judas left."

Holmes skimmed the book and then closed it. "And the number of twelve?"

"The disciples."

"Any idea why this passage, Satan entered Judas Iscariot of the twelve disciples, would be quoted and affixed to a cross above the now empty graves of the Southerland twins?"

Father Doyle shook his head in the negative. "No sir."

The consulting detective looked at me. "What do you say old man? Shall we take up the chase?"

I sighed, knowing full well that he had already made up his mind. "I hope there is a cab to be found. I don't fancy walking the easy distance to Saint Mary's in such weather."

Holmes smiled broadly. "Then come Watson, come. On with your coat. The game is afoot!"

After lending the young priest one of my own greatcoats, the three of us left the comforts of Baker Street and entered the raging gale outside, curious to discover what we would learn at the rectory. If I had known all that would take place, I would have never agreed to let Holmes pursue the investigation.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews! Here's the next installment. Please let me know what you think. **

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><p>We walked three long blocks in the storm until we came upon a growler. Fully soaked, we secured the cab and began speeding away towards the Catholic Church.<p>

"I'm sorry for bringing you gentlemen out in such a storm," Father Doyle said from within the deep confines of my coat. "I can see if Father Michaels can fix you some tea—it's his week to be in charge of the kitchen."

"That will be most welcomed," I said.

Holmes, in one of his rare moments of levity, clapped me on the back and let out a bark of laughter. "Come come Watson," said he, "such complaints from so old a campaigner?" I was glad to see the vast improvement of his mood now that he was hot upon a scent.

"I'm more accustomed to sand storms old fellow, not monsoons."

Through the brief illumination of lightening, I saw him smile briefly, before once again resuming his silence. I did not doubt for one moment that he was turning over in his great brain the problem the young priest had laid before us. Father Doyle, too was in little mood for conversation, his lips moving in silent prayer and his fingers working nervously over the rosary beads he held in his hand as we sped away through the darkness.

When we finally arrived at our destination, Father Doyle paid the driver, ignoring my protests to the contrary, and led us into a small Spartan room with the only decoration a small, wooden crucifix. Father Doyle took our coats and began to stoke a dying fire.

"I'll see if Father Michaels is around to get you some tea."

"I would like to speak to him," Holmes said quickly. "And the groundskeeper."

"Yes sir," Father Doyle said, taking his leave.

When we were alone, my friend turned to me, his eyes shining brightly from beneath his wet and dripping eyebrows. "Well Watson, what do you make of it?"

"I make nothing of it," I confessed. "The whole affair is most horrible."

"Horrible?" Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprised. "That's a powerful word coming from you Watson."

"The graves of two innocent children were desecrated!" I shuddered to think of those two sweet young girls whose earthly remains were Lord knows where.

"We don't know that for certain," Holmes said softly.

"Holmes a priest would not lie about such things! I know you've no use for organized religions, but you still must realize—"

He silenced me with a wave of his hand. A moment later, we were joined by Father Doyle and another man who I took to be Father Michaels.

The usual pleasantries were exchanged, and after a few moments, Holmes and I found ourselves seated across from the two priests, a pot of steaming tea before us.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," Father Michaels said as he poured tea into our cups.

"Now, Father Michaels," Holmes said, looking at the older priest, "what can you tell me of the incidents of tonight?"

"There's not much I can tell you sir," the clergyman said, "other then what Father Doyle has already said."

"There might be something," Holmes said. "Now what exactly occurred this evening?"

The older priest sighed and sipped his tea gratefully. "Thomas—Father Doyle—and myself were in this room, playing a quiet game of cards."

"Cards?" I couldn't help but ask.

Father Michaels smiled at me. "Just because we are priests Doctor Watson, doesn't mean we can't enjoy a bit of friendly sport."

I felt my face catch fire. "Yes, of course."

Holmes cleared his throat impatiently.

"As I said before," Father Michaels continued as though I had never spoken, "we were enjoying a rubber of whist when our groundskeeper threw open the rectory door and nearly collapsed onto the carpet. He was soaking wet and looked for all the world as though he had seen Satan himself on our very grounds. I rushed over to him and ordered Father Doyle to fetch brandy from the kitchen.

'Mason,' I said, ushering him into a chair, 'whatever is the matter?'

'The Devil's work is upon us,' he muttered, 'the Devil's work is upon us Father.'

I tried to question him, Mr. Holmes, but could get nothing out of him save unintelligible murmurs until he had some brandy down his throat and he felt its searing heat in his gullet. Never before had I seen the man so shaken. Mason has nerves of steel Mr. Holmes, he has served in Her Majesty's Army and seen many horrors.

When I questioned him more closely, he has said all that Father Doyle has already told you, or so I hope." He stared hard at the younger priest, who nodded meekly.

"I've told them everything that we heard Father."

"What do you make of the note attached to the cross Father Michaels?"

The older priest shrugged his slender shoulders and quickly crossed himself. "That is a powerful passage sir, but why it should be there I have no theory."

"Do you recall if you touched the note at all?"

"I did not," Father Michaels said. "Father Doyle is the one who removed it from the cross and it was Father Doyle who folded it and placed it in his pocket."

"What do you make of the strange appearance of Father O'Brien at the grave?"

Again Father Michaels shrugged. "I cannot understand why he would be in the graveyard in such weather when he has been gone from the rectory for an entire day and night. We are like a family Mr. Holmes, and despite how well I know Father O'Brien, I cannot understand his actions any more then you can. If he saw that the grave was disturbed, I don't understand why he didn't alert me immediately."

"Why would he have alerted you?"

"I'm the eldest priest in this rectory," he said with a small bow, "and am head priest here. Should anything unusual occur, then it is my duty to report it to the proper avenues."

"And as head priest, I would assume that you would know if anything is amiss with your fellow brethren?"

"Yes Mr. Holmes, my door is always open to my brothers, should they need advice or consultation."

"Then is there any reason why Father O'Brien would have wanted to leave?"

"Of course not!" Father Michaels said adamantly. "In addition to being one of the older priests here, he is also my dearest friend. Should he be in any spiritual conflict which would make him doubt his calling, I certainly should have known about it."

"And is there any reason he would have had for desecrating a grave?"

Both priests paled at my friend's question and the burned red with indignation.

"How dare you ask such a question Mr. Holmes?" Father Michaels thundered. "He is a priest who respects not only the religion, but also the spiritual soul! He would never—"

"It's all right Father," I said gently. "He meant no offense I can assure you. He simply wondered if there was some reason that you can fathom for Father O'Brien to be at the graveside after such a heinous occurrence?"

Father Michaels was mollified by my explanation and Holmes smiled at me quickly, expressing though his eyes his gratitude for my swift intervention.

"No Mr. Holmes, I cannot find a reason for it though I try to. I've prayed for knowledge or wisdom and I've also prayed for Father O'Brien's safe return. There have been no answers to my prayers so far."

"Before I speak with the groundskeeper, would it be possible to see Father O'Brien's room?"

Father Doyle nodded. "Come this way gentlemen."

We followed Father Doyle up a narrow and creaking staircase.

"You must forgive Father Michaels' outburst," the young priest said gently, "he meant no harm by it I can assure you. He is worried, as all of us are, about Father O'Brien and about the young Southerland girls. Ah, here we are gentlemen."

Father Doyle showed us into a small, sparse chamber with very few worldly possessions. The only pieces of furniture were a narrow wooden bed, a small writing table and a bookshelf. A simple crucifix adorned the wall above the door and a tiny wooden statue of the Blessed Mother sat on a windowsill.

Holmes was attracted to the writing desk and looked at the well-worn and cracked leather cover of the only book which occupied it.

"Is the Holy Bible standard and required reading?"

Father Doyle chuckled. "We consult the Bible quite often Mr. Holmes."

Holmes opened the book to where it was marked and let out a little ejaculation of surprise when he found a piece of foolscap covered in writing between its pages. He removed the paper and carefully studied it. He then looked at the Bible itself and read over the passage that was marked.

He then proceeded to thumb through the book, consulting both the paper and the actual printed pages of the Bible. He stopped several times, and when he had finished, returned the book to its resting spot on the desk. "Now, Father Doyle, is there a specific reason that Father O'Brien would be reading of demonic possession?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mark chapter five verses one through twenty, Mark chapter nine verses seventeen through twenty nine, Mathew chapter four verse twenty four, Ephesians chapter six verse twelve. They all deal with a possession of some sort, as I'm sure you, as a man of the cloth, are well aware."

"I've no explanation for it Mr. Holmes," Father Doyle replied. "Perhaps he was preparing a sermon on it?"

"Would there be a need for such a sermon?"

"I don't know sir," Father Doyle replied. "I do not know what he preaches to his flock."

"His handwriting is quite shaky, don't you agree Watson?" Holmes passed the paper to me and I read it over with a physician's eye.

"It looks as though he suffered from an ague or some other disease which would affect the limbs and cause this kind of unsteadiness."

"Did Father O'Brien suffer from any kind of illness?"

"No Mr. Holmes."

Holmes and I turned at the voice and saw Father Michaels standing in the doorway, watching us.

"He was not ill."

"Was there any change in behavior that you noticed? Be frank with me Father Michaels."

The elder priest closed his eyes for a moment and leaned heavily against the doorframe. "He had grown rather reclusive," he said after a few moments. "Ordinarily, despite his age, Father O'Brien is a very social man, always ready with a quick conversation or quick joke, quite popular with the younger priests like Father Doyle. However, as of late, he had withdrawn into himself, eating with the rest of us but retreating back into his room immediately afterwards. Try as I might I could not learn the reason for his silence."

"Had anything unusual occurred around the time of this change of behavior?"

"Not to my recollection Mr. Holmes."

Holmes moved from the man's desk and picked up the small religious statute. "This is new, is it not?"

Father Michaels nodded. "Lately he had been praying to the Virgin Mary more so then usual. I'm not surprised he picked up a statue."

Holmes nodded. "Is there anything unusual about praying to her?"

"No Mr. Holmes, it is quite common in our religion, as it is in your own."

Holmes' eyes grew bright with mirth as he looked at me. He then proceeded to examine the room, searching the windowsill and beneath the bed. He also checked the wardrobe.

"Nothing seems to be missing," Holmes said as he stared into the wardrobe's depths. "Perhaps a coat, as there doesn't appear to be one in here. Now, Fathers, would it be possible to speak with your groundskeeper?"

"He lives in the house in the graveyard," Father Michaels said. "One of us can accompany you—"

"If you would just give Watson and I a dark lantern, I am certain we can find our way."

"Of course sir. Will you require anything else?"

"You've a good hat Watson?"

I nodded.

"Then gentlemen that is all we require."

Father Doyle led us out of the room and once more into the small sitting room. He disappeared for a moment and then reappeared carrying with him two dark lanterns. "Might we dissuade you from venturing out in such weather?"

"Time, Father Doyle, is of the essence." My friend shrugged into his greatcoat and took the lantern from the young priest. I followed suit and a few moments later, Holmes and I found ourselves outside in the lashing rain, with Father Doyle leading the way into the cemetery.

"I will leave you gentlemen here," Father Doyle yelled over the wind. "Come back to the rectory before you leave and we will have steaming mugs of tea waiting for you."

"Thank you Father," I replied, my voice nearly getting lost in the howling storm.

I watched as the priest disappeared behind a set of trees, leaving Holmes and I entirely alone.


	3. Chapter 3

"This is an interesting place to find ourselves Watson," Holmes shouted. He observed our surroundings as though it was a warm, summer morning instead of a stormy fall evening.

I sighed and drew my coat more tightly around me to combat the chill which was quickly settling in my bones.

"We must first find the groundskeeper and then the open grave."

"You honestly think we will learn anything in such a storm?"

"It's a gamble Watson," Holmes admitted as he began striding away from me in a westward direction, "but one we must take."

We walked an easy distance in the pouring rain, past innumerable crypts and monuments, all of which marked the final resting place of all those whom have journeyed before us on that adventure from which no traveler returns. The more we walked, the lower my spirits sank until I quite literally felt as though there was no point in going any further. Such an attitude was strange for me, but the scenery was quite glum and the weather was foul enough to put even the most joyous man in the worst of spirits.

We journeyed on until we came to a large clearing, which was occupied by a tiny house.

"Ah, here we are at last," Holmes said, pausing to stare at the structure. The smile he flashed me in the lashing rain looked positively garish against the shadows cast on his dripping face from the dark lantern.

The small brick house was completely dark save for a single candle guttering in the front window. We walked to the door and pounded heavily upon it.

"Mr. Mason," Holmes shouted, his voice being carried by the wind, "Mr. Mason I must speak with you at once!"

A few moments passed and my friend raised his fist to knock again, when the door opened, revealing a small man, holding a candle in his hand.

"'Oose there?" He asked roughly.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson." Holmes waited for a few moments to see if his name would register in the man's mind. When it didn't, he let out a snort of annoyance.

"What'dyou want?"

"If we could but come in for a few moments," Holmes said a suavely as possible. "I have some questions regarding Father O'Brien."

"'Ow do you know 'bout that?"

"Father Doyle consulted us," Holmes said, "to look into the affair."

The man hesitated for a moment and then stepped aside, allowing us admittance into the small chamber.

Gratefully we stepped inside, glad to divest ourselves of our heavy coats and soaking hats.

"'Ere now, you're friends of Father Doyle, aye?"

"Yes," Holmes replied, hanging his coat on a peg in the wall. He ran his fingers through his glistening hair, fixing it in place. "My name," he repeated, "is Sherlock Holmes. This is Doctor Watson."

The man considered us for a few moments. "Sit," he said at length and indicated two well-worn chairs. "My name is Mason."

"Now, my dear sir," Holmes said, "tell us all that transpired this evening."

The man sat opposite us and offered us a box of cigars which Holmes accepted gratefully. "I am the groundskeeper for both the church and the graveyard," he began gruffly. "I was diggin' a grave, finishing it up for tomorrow's service I was."

"Where was is this grave?"

"Near that of the Southerland girls, near the middle of the graveyard. I was diggin' an' the first stirrings of the storm lurked near gov'nor. I looked up towards the sky an' I saw a sight that I'll never forget till the end of my days I won't."

"What did you see?" Holmes pressed.

"'Twas Father O'Brien standing 'bout a hundred yards' from 'ere I stood. I called out to 'im, but 'e didn't respond 'e didn't. I approached 'im an' I saw 'is form gov. 'E was all red from the throat upwards, 'is frock wet with fresh blood it was, 'is throat bleedin' as though it'd been cut open. 'Is face was deathly pale an' 'is eyes were glassy an' unseein'. 'E was jus' starin' at the grave 'e was. I 'urried over but by the time I reached where 'e stood, 'e was gone an' the storm started raging. I looked at the grave where 'e was standin' an' when I saw it, me 'eart grew cold an' sick. The grave I dug an' filled was open an' the coffins empty. The twin girls were gone.

I fell to me knees, I did crossin' myself an' prayin' to God above that I didn't just see the devil 'imself standin' before me. I 'urried gov to tell Father Michaels I did. 'E would know what to make of it."

"Did you touch anything by the grave?"

"Not a thing sir. I saw paper flutterin' on the cross but I didn't touch it none. I was to scared to gov'nor."

"What did Father Michaels say to you?"

"'E 'urried out 'ere wif Father Doyle 'e did sir. Saw for themselves what I told 'em. They went back to the rectory an' I came back 'ere. Been prayin' all night sir."

"And you live alone?"

"Aye sir. This aint no place for a missues. I enjoy me work though. An' bein' near the Fathers. It suits me it does."

"Would you be able to take us to the gravesite?"

"In this weather sir? Are you 'alf daft?"

"I think five pounds would well make up for your trouble," Holmes said, producing a soggy five pound note from his pocketbook.

The man looked at the bill and then at my friend. "Aye sir, lemme jus' get me coat an' lantern an' I'll show you all you desire to see."

A few moments later, Holmes and I once again found ourselves outside in the seemingly unending rain. We walked for a quarter of an hour in silence, the pounding rain and the booming thunder the only sounds in the otherwise deathly still graveyard.

Suddenly, our guide stopped and raised his lantern. "I go no further gov'nors." With a dirt encrusted and broken finger, he pointed towards a spot that was just outside the reach of his lantern. "Up there, you will find what you are looking for."

"And how will we get back?"

"It's all right Watson," Holmes said. "Let the chap go." My friend handed the man the promised five pound note. "Thank you sir."

With a curt nod and a muttered thanks, we watched as Mason limped away from us, watching his little lantern disappear in the encroaching darkness.

"This way then Watson," Holmes said, tugging at my sleeve.

We walked slowly through the storm; Holmes' own head was bent as he stared hard at the sopping and muddy ground. I shuddered as frigid rain dripped down the collar of my coat, chilling my skin. I tried to ignore the pools of mud that sucked at my boots, threatening to topple me off my balance. We painfully made our way up a small hill, until we crested it and saw, for the first time, the first of the two graves Mason had told us about.

"This," Holmes said pointing to the yawning hole in the earth, "is the grave our groundskeeper was digging." We stopped beside it and Holmes raised his dark lantern high above his head. "Just there Watson, can you see the mound of dirt?"

I followed his finger and saw some several hundred yards away the outline of a small mound. "Yes Holmes."

"That is where we must go. Is your leg all right to proceed?"

I nodded. I had not come all this way to simply turn back because I was feeling a bit of pain.

"Good old Watson," he said, clapping me on the back. "Come along then."

We proceeded walking until we came upon the second of the graves, that of the Southerland girls. I raised my lantern and saw the simple cross which was the temporary grave marker with their surname scratched hurriedly into its face. Holmes rushed to said marker, and after taking his magnifying glass from one of the many pockets of his coat, proceeded to pour over the wood.

"Ah! Here is the nail where the note was affixed!" He called to me over the storm. "Stand back a bit Watson," he said motioning back the way we had come. "Find shelter under a tree. I need as little disturbance to the scene as possible."

I did as he instructed and found some shelter from the biting wind beneath a stout oak tree about ten yards from where my friend was rushing about like a crazed bloodhound hot upon a scent. He threw himself onto the muddy ground, crawling this way and that, muttering little ejaculations of surprise and dismay. He rose to his feet again, approached the side of the one of the twin holes and examined it closely. Then, much to my horror, he stood and jumped into the open grave.

"Holmes!" I shouted as loudly as possible. I rushed over to the grave, despite his instructions and held the lantern high over the hole, watching him as he, on his hands and knees examined the sides and the water filled casket. I watched in horror as he stepped into the pine box, water sloshing up to his calves as he examined the lid which was propped against the side of the empty grave. He then knelt down inside the casket and examined each of the four sides of it. When he had completed his investigation, he clutched a root which was protruding from the side of the grave and began to pull himself up.

I knelt onto the muddy ground and offered him my hand, which he took gratefully. With a great deal of effort, I pulled him out of the grave, and sat back on my haunches, breathing heavily from the effort.

"What the devil were you thinking?"

"I must do the same with the other I am afraid." He stood and subjected the other grave to the same minute inspection. When he had finished and I once again helped him onto solid ground, he motioned me back to my tree as he continued to pour over the ground. He then climbed up into one of the nearby trees and stayed there for some long moments, examining the trunk and branches minutely.

"Holmes, for God's sake man," I shouted over the gale, "there's bloody lightening!" As if to punctuate my words, a large streak of it flashed across the sky, illuminating the entire graveyard as though it was noon.

It was then I saw it, something fluttering near the tree that Holmes was examining. I hurried over to it and plucked from the side of a large crypt a black piece of cloth. I put it in my pocket for safe keeping until I could show it to Holmes.

I watched as Holmes climbed down the tree and once again, on his hands and knees, began examining the base of the tree. I watched as he removed an envelope from the confines of his coat and put in a bit of mud. He stood then, and after motioning me to join him, began walking away from the open graves at a brisk pace.

I was forced to run to catch up with him, and when I was finally at his side, I held my tongue for I could see he was deep in thought. We walked a great distance, Holmes stopping every so often to examine the path we were taking. We stopped our walk at one of the older areas of the graveyard.

"The trail has run cold Watson," Holmes said, with a small measure of disappointment in his voice.

"The trail?"

"Two men were here this evening. One of them was wearing square-toed boots the other round-toed boots. Square toes is about six feet in height and a good eleven stone. You know I can tell the man's height by the length of his stride and his weight by the distance he has sunk into the mud. He was up in the tree for a great deal of time, long enough to carve a queer symbol in the bark. He smoked as he worked, there was ash on the branches and the same ash in the mud near the base of the tree. From a quick look, I think it is a Turkish mixture but when we get to Baker Street I will be better able to determine the exact compounds. He was here longer then square toed.

Round toes was the one that approached the graves and dug them up. It was difficult work. He's also the man who opened the coffins with a pry bar. I could just about make out the outlines of his shoes in the grave. He walks on with pressure on the inside edge of his feet. He's a strong man and seemingly tireless. They walked this way but the storm has obliterated any other trace of them."

"Here Holmes," I said handing him the cloth I found. "This was stuck on the side of one of the marble crypts near the tree you were examining."

Holmes examined the cloth closely then put it in one of his coat pockets. "Come Watson, we've been in the elements long enough. To Baker Street then, but first we must stop at the rectory. I need a description of Father O'Brien and I also want to take a look at his shoes."

We retraced our steps, past the open graves and past the groundskeeper's small home. When we finally returned to the rectory, we were both chilled to the bone and soaked to the skin.

"Dear Lord," Father Michaels exclaimed when he saw the state we were in. "Come inside quickly. Thomas! Some brandy and tea!"

We were ushered inside the sitting room and Father Michael took our coats and my hat and hung them near the fire to dry. "I'll be right back."

He left us for a few moments and returned quickly with several towels and two dry black shirts and matching trousers. "Come come, out of that wet clothing this instant. My God Mr. Holmes it looks as though you went for a swim."

Holmes, whose teeth were chattering violently, flashed the priest a smile. The two of us quickly stripped out of our wet clothing, uncaring of modesty, and stepped into the dry woolen clothing that Father Michaels readily supplied us. Using the towels, we both dried our hair and Holmes wiped his face which was streaked with mud. When we were both more or less respectable, we sat and helped ourselves to the brandy and tea, which Father Doyle thrust into our hands.

"What happened to you gentlemen out there?"

"Nothing of any interest," Holmes replied, happily lighting a cigarette from the case which Father Doyle produced from the pockets of his trousers. "I will need to see Father O'Brien's rooms again if you please."

"You can see all you like when you warm yourselves a bit," Father Michael said sternly.

We sat, for awhile before the blazing fire, Holmes smoking with his head sunk upon his breast, deep in thought and I speaking quietly with the two priests. Suddenly, Holmes leapt to his feet, stopping all conversation.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you for all your lovely reviews. I hope you continue to enjoy this next installment! Please let me know what you think R&R! Thanks!**

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><p>"I must see Father O'Brien's room now," he thundered.<p>

Father Doyle rose and once again showed us to the missing priest's room. Once inside, Holmes tore open the wardrobe and began meticulously going through the priest's clothing and shoes. "See here Watson," Holmes said, producing a pair of black boots. "He prefers round toed shoes. But the soles are worn evenly!" He let out a growl of disappointment.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Father Michaels asked quickly.

"Everything or nothing," Holmes replied. "I am not yet certain." He examined the soles of the shoes and sighed with irritation. The detective then rushed back down the stairs and into the sitting room. He rummaged in his coat until he produced a much-battered notebook. He quickly skimmed through the damp pages until he arrived at a page with a queer symbol hastily drawn upon it.

"Father Michaels," Holmes asked the elderly priest, "does this symbol mean anything to you?" He thrust the notebook underneath the man's nose.

When Father Michaels saw the symbol, he quickly crossed himself and muttered a prayer beneath his breath. "That's an inverted pentagram. See the two points upward?"

Holmes and I nodded.

"It's a mark of Satan. It's used in rituals to conjure up evil spirits."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Conjure up evil spirits?"

"This is no laughing matter Mr. Holmes. The church takes things like this very seriously."

"I beg your pardon Father," Holmes said, "but I fail to see what things the church takes seriously."

Father Michaels' face darkened. "Mr. Holmes if whoever wrote this was serious, then the Devil's own forces are at work."

"There are more things on Earth, Father, then dreamt of in your philosophy. The world is big enough for us, no ghosts need apply."

"You scoff at our dogma?"

"I scoff at nothing," Holmes said. "I am merely saying, Father, that we need to rule out all of the earthly possibilities before jumping into the supernatural."

"Do you share these views Doctor Watson?"

I smiled at the priest. "I am a man of science sir," I said. "But I am also a God fearing man."

Father Michaels. "A wise man sir."

I smiled, and Holmes feigned a yawn.

"Well Fathers," he said to both priests, "I want to thank you for your kindness, but we really must be off. There is much work yet to be done."

"You will of course keep the clothing," Father Michaels said. "And if you will but give me a moment."

We watched as the priest disappeared for a few moments and he reappeared a few moments later carrying two small boxes.

"I know you are Protestant," he said handing the boxes to both myself and Holmes, "but if the Devil's hand is truly upon this problem, I want you to at least be prepared."

I opened the small box and pulled out a string of wooden beads with a cross on one end.

"Rosary beads," Father Doyle said by way of explanation. "They're already blessed. With those in your pocket, God is always close at hand."

I thanked Father Michaels and nudged Holmes to do the same. Then, we took our leave.

"Well Watson," Holmes said as he stuffed the Rosary beads into a coat pocket, "what do you make of that?"

"They're religious men Holmes," I said. "And you showed them a Satanic symbol. It's only natural they would want to protect us against any evil forces."

Holmes let out a bark of a laugh. "Come along then Watson," said he. "Let us not see if we can dispel their supernatural fears."

I was glad to see that the rain had somewhat tapered off and we walked a few blocks until we found a hansom. Once we were comfortably seated and speeding towards Baker Street, Holmes reclined and leaned back against the cushions.

"We've much to do yet Watson," he said quietly.

"A hot bath is in order first," I said. "You got a severe chill jumping into a rain filled casket. What the devil were you thinking?"

"I needed data."

"And at what cost to your health?"

"That's what I have you for my dear fellow." His lips twitched into a half smile. "We've got to determine the tobacco ash first and then learn the meaning behind this symbol. Why was it carved into the tree? What does it mean? That is the question that will beat at my brain like a hammer."

When we finally arrived at Baker Street, I fixed Holmes a hot bath, and after much protest, I convinced him to go into the scorching water.

"Watson," he called to me from the washroom, "can you make a long arm and find my reference book with the letter 'S' and the letter 'P'?"

"Your commonplace book or another?"

"Both," he replied. "I want to see what can be learned about the Southerland twins as well as—"

"I can tell you all you need to know about them Holmes," I replied, searching through the bookshelf until I found what he required. "I've been treating their family for years. Besides, they are upright citizens and I highly doubt they would have found their way into one of your collections."

"Even still," he said, entering the sitting room, drying his hair with a towel, "there might be something of note. Ah Watson, I must say I feel much better having shed those priestly garments."

I smiled and took my own seat across from his. With his dressing gown pulled tightly around him, he sat in his own armchair, pipe in hand, and reached for the books, which I handed to him.

"Tell me, now my dear Watson, all you can about the Southerland family. Why would they fall victim to such an odd occurrence?"

"I honestly do not know," I replied. "Their family owns a bakery in Hanover Square. It's not very lucrative, but they make a decent living from it. Their father, James, is the head baker and his wife works with him. An odd arraignment I know, but one that is hardly criminal. Their daughters have their own governess a Miss Violet Granger some five and twenty years of age."

"Do you know the governess as well?"

"Yes Holmes, I've treated her on numerous occasions. In fact, she had the exact same streak of influenza that claimed the lives of the twin girls."

Holmes' eyebrows raised. "The same streak?"

"Yes, it's wreaking havoc across London I'm afraid."

"Was anyone else in the house affected?"

I shook my head in the negative. "No."

"And can you tell me these symptoms? When did they fall prey to this illness?"

"Holmes I can assure you—"

"I am not questioning your ability as a physician Watson," my friend said with the most disarming of smiles. "However, I do find it singular that only three members of the family have suffered this disease and two of them have perished."

"What are you suggesting?" I leaned forward in my chair.

"I am suggesting nothing as of yet Doctor," he replied. "But if you think back to our recent exploits, one particular one does come to mind. It involved pathogens and a vengeful plot."

"You don't think they've met a fate similar to Victor Savage do you? Surely Holmes if it were an Eastern disease I would have noticed."

"Again Watson I do not doubt your abilities. If I did so, I would never allow you to treat me. However, you are an honest man and a true testament to your trade. You would never think to employ the microbe as a means to an end as so many twisted men in your field have done. Now, the symptoms please my dear fellow."

"High fever," I said with a sinking feeling in my gut, "severe chills, terrible pain in the body and overall fatigue. They are standard influenza symptoms, but the fever in this particular strain is most fearsome."

"And cause of death?"

"Severe dehydration and, I am sorry to say, brain fever."

Holmes nodded but said nothing. He simply smoked his pipe and watched as blue smoke rings chased each other up to our ceiling before bursting and disappearing forever. I knew better then to intrude upon his thoughts, so I simply sat and enjoyed the warmth of the fire as it thawed my freezing body.

"I suspect," Holmes said suddenly, "that you're experiencing chills yourself Doctor." A small smile played about his lips. "I would recommend you allow yourself the same treatment you prescribed to me. You will feel infinitely better."

"And what will you do?"

"I have ash I need to analyze, and I have a symbol I must understand. I would not mind silence for at least an hour."

I nodded and rose from my chair. After spending a great deal of time in heated bath water and then changing into my own clothes I did, indeed, feel much more like myself. When I reentered the sitting room, I found Holmes at his chemical bench, bent over his microscope like a great bird of prey. I quietly went to my chair, picked up my copy of the _Lancet_ and began to read.

My mind could not focus on the printed word however, and I found my own thoughts drifting to the plight of the young priest. The more I tangled the facts in my mind the more muddied everything became. I forced myself to stop with a snort of disgust.

"You're theorizing before you have any data," Holmes said without turning round to face me.

It was not the first time he had accurately broken into my thoughts, but I was surprised nonetheless.

"It is easy to deduce my dear Watson when I have a small silver glass upon my bench here. Although you are holding your newspaper, you have not turned the page for some twenty minutes. What else, save the plight that Father Doyle brought to our door, could occupy your thoughts with such intensity? It was really simplicity in itself."

"And your thoughts on the subject are idle?" I countered.

"I am thinking only of the task I am currently doing," Holmes said. "To think of anything else with so few straws in my hand would be a decided waste of time and energy."

"Have you made any particular discovery?"

"This is a unique blend of tobacco," Holmes said, glad to share his findings. "It is a Turkish blend as I had first stated, but there are traces of mint, which bring about it a singular quality. Obviously our man has this blend prepared for him by his own Tobacconist. Once we can find where he buys his tobacco, we might have a better sense of who he is. We shall go to Mortimer's at once upon the morrow."

"And your symbol?"

"There's nothing here that will help us," Holmes said with a frown. "I have searched both my indexes under pentagram and there is no useful data. I must spend some time in the London Library I'm afraid."

"And what will you do tonight?"

"Smoke," he replied. "This is quite a three pipe problem."

Knowing I could not convince him to do otherwise, I rose from my chair and walked up the stairs to my own room. I lay down beneath my bedclothes and closed my eyes hoping Morpheous took hold of me quickly. Unfortunately, my mind continued to turn over the events of the day until well into first light. Eventually, however, I must have fallen asleep because I felt someone shaking my shoulder in effort to rouse me.

I opened my eyes to find Holmes standing fully dressed by my bedside, candle in hand.

"I'm sorry to knock you up so early Watson," Holmes said, "but we've much work to do."

"What time is it?" I barely stifled a yawn.

"Half past five," he replied. "Come, into your clothes."

When Holmes left, I joined him, fully dressed, some ten minutes later.

"We've enough time for some coffee."

I poured the scalding liquid into one of the porcelain cups and slowly drank it. "What are we doing today?"

"You need to speak with the Southerlands while I follow other lines of inquiry."

I raised my eyebrows. "You've an idea then?"

"A night wreathed in smoke does wonders for the logical faculty."

"And very little for one's health," I countered.

Holmes waved away my words with one of his long, white hands. "You will see if anything unusual occurred during the time of death."

"I can tell you that nothing did. I was there as they breathed their last breaths." A pang entered my breast and I closed my eyes to counter it. It was never easy to loose a patient, but the pain of loosing ones so young was difficult to overcome, despite my own professional standards.

"While I do not doubt your words my dear fellow," Holmes said, "your attention was preoccupied by trying to save those poor children. I need to know if anything unusual arrived by post prior to their illness or death."

"And what, pray, do you expect me to say to two grieving parents Holmes? Surely I cannot tell them that the graves of their only daughters have been desecrated and their earthly remains are heaven knows where!"

Holmes was silent for a few moments, considering my question. "If it comes to that you must," he said at length.

I shuddered to think of relaying such devastating news. "You ask too much of me."

"It is essential to this investigation. If it will ease their minds, tell them that Sherlock Holmes is working tirelessly to find them."

I sighed and pushed away from the table. I grabbed my black medical bag from its resting place beside my desk. "I can make the excuse that my rounds took me into the neighborhood."

A half smile played about his lips. "Good old Watson." He removed his watch from his waistcoat pocket. "We shall meet back here at seven?"

I nodded and hurried into the cold morning air in search of a hansom. When I was seated comfortably in a cab, speeding towards Hanover Square, I felt my heart begin to sink. I did not know how I could face the two people whom I had failed so terribly.

I shuddered when I found myself outside of that all too familiar door. Thinking of the fate of the two deceased girls, I hardened my resolve and pulled on the bell rope. I was greeted a moment later by their maid.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks to all of my lovely readers who left reviews. I do hope you continue to enjoy this latest installment, and please do let me know what you think by dropping a review. **

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><p>"Ah Doctor Watson this is certainly a surprise!" She ejaculated when she recognized me. She looked at me and saw my medical bag in hand. "I knew the missus was ill but I didn't think it was so bad that we needed a physician."<p>

"This is merely a social call my dear woman," I said gently. "Is Mr. Southerland at home?"

"Yes I don't believe he has left for the day. Come inside Doctor and let me take your coat."

After giving the woman my coat and hat, I found myself in the airy sitting room of the Southerland home. Feeling decidedly uncomfortable in the room, I set my bag next to the settee and thrust my hands into my pockets. I stared out of the window which looked out towards the street and tried to figure out just what the devil I was going to say.

"Doctor Watson?"

I turned at the voice and found myself staring at the large, imposing figure of James Southerland. He reached out his hand to shake my own and I was struck by the black mourning band which tightly adorned his arm.

I took a deep breath. "Good morning sir."

"To what do I owe this visit?"

"My rounds brought me into this section of town," I said, praying my acting skills were not nearly as bad as Holmes claimed, "and when I found myself passing your door, I thought it best if I stopped in to see how you and Mrs. Southerland were fairing."

He smiled slightly and motioned for me to sit. When I was comfortable on the settee, he offered me a cigar from his case, which I gratefully accepted.

"That's very kind of you Doctor," he said. "We're getting along as well as can be expected." His eyes grew sad as he looked at me. "It is quite lucky that you've come. I was going to call upon you myself this afternoon."

I smoked my cigar and waited for him to explain.

"My wife has grown ill Doctor," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "For three days she has been sinking."

"What are the symptoms?"

He sighed and sank heavily into his chair. "I'm afraid they're the same."

I felt my pulse quicken. "Are you certain?"

Sadly he nodded. "She's been ill since we buried our daughters. I thought, at first it was grief, but I see now I was wrong."

I extinguished my cigar and grabbed my medical bag from its resting place. "Let us waste no more time then."

I followed Mr. Southerland out of the sitting room and up a small staircase. When we reached the sickroom of Mrs. Southerland, her husband floundered.

"I cannot bear to loose my wife. Not after everything that has happened."

I patted his shoulder. "You have my assurance that I will do everything in my power to save you from any more grief."

Mr. Southerland nodded and opened the door to the sickroom. Quietly, I approached the bed where my patient was sleeping.

"Mrs. Southerland?" I asked gently.

She opened one of her eyes and stared at me with an unsteady gaze. "Doctor Watson." She coughed once, a deep rattling sound. "This house has fallen upon evil days," she said, her voice croaking.

"Nonsense," I said, forcing myself to keep my voice light.

I set my bag down and removed my thermometer from its confines. Without saying a word, I inserted the instrument under her tongue and waited several moments so I could get an accurate reading. Although her temperature was elevated, she was not yet in dire conditions.

I quickly examined her abdomen and throat, feeling for any abnormalities. I listened to her lungs to ensure there was nothing amiss. When my examination was complete, I poured a glass of water and quickly mixed a powder which I hoped would stave off any serious fever. "Drink this madam," I said.

Weakly, she took the glass and slowly drained it of its contents. She handed it back to me with a weary sigh.

"What is going to become of me?"

I took an envelope of powder from my bag and set it beside her water glass. "Mix that with water and drink it in three hours," I said to her. "And then I will call upon you tomorrow. Hopefully you will start feeling more like yourself."

"I'll never feel like myself again Doctor," she said. "Not after loosing Anne and Kate."

I squeezed her shoulder in a comforting fashion. "I am so sorry."

Her unsteady gaze once again met mine. "I don't blame you Doctor Watson."

"That is very kind of you to say."

"You did all you could for them. It was God's idea to take them from us."

"Drink that in three hours," I repeated. "It will reduce your fever."

She nodded and sank back against the pillows. I returned my instruments to my bag and quietly exited the sickroom.

"Will she be all right?" James Southerland asked when I entered the hallway.

"She'll be fine. I gave her something to reduce her fever. I do not believe she is in any immediate danger."

The lines of worry instantly left his stern brow. "Thank you."

"Did anything unusual occur around the time she grew ill?"

His face suddenly grew stormy. "That's a queer question to ask me Doctor all things considered."

I instantly blushed when I realized my error. "I'm sorry. That was a heartless question to ask."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Mr. Southerland clapped a hand on my shoulder. "It's all right Doctor," he said. "I've grown quick tempered as of late. Come into my study with me sir and have another cigar."

I followed him into a modest room and sat in one of his great overstuff chairs.

"It's strange Doctor," he said, settling down across from me in his own chair. He lifted a wooden cigar box from the table and handed me one. I lit it with one of my own matches. "But sometimes I can still hear them in the hallway outside this room. They used to like to play in here on occasion. I even found one of their dolls in the back of my bookshelf. Heaven knows how it got there."

I held my silence, knowing he had more he wanted to say.

"Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking I can hear them coughing and crying out for me in the darkness. Once I even went into their room just to make sure this wasn't all just some nightmare. But all that greeted me behind their door was a void of the most deadly silence and oppressive stillness. I'm fearing for my sanity Doctor."

"There's no need to do that," I said as gently as I could. "You're grieving sir, not loosing your wits. I'm a doctor after all, and would know the difference. Besides, what you're experiencing is quite normal. When my dear wife passed, there were nights when I swore I could still feel her lying beside me. I even turned towards her side of the bed on numerous occasions, only to be greeted by the cold night air. Take heart though, my dear fellow, for such things fade with time. The pain lessens from a stabbing agony to a dull ache and those phantom footfalls slowly disappear."

He looked at me with hopeful eyes. "How long before those changes happen?"

"It takes time of course, but I can assure you that it does get easier."

"It's nice to be able to speak to a man who understands such feelings."

We sat for a few moments smoking in silence.

"May I ask you a question?" I asked, remembering my mission from Holmes.

"Of course Doctor."

"Can you recall if anything unusual occurred during the time your girls grew ill?"

He thought for several moments and through some trick of light, I swore his face paled slightly. "No sir, not that I can recall." He looked at me. "May I ask you one Doctor?"

I nodded in assent.

"Do you ever think of them?"

"Your daughters?"

He nodded and I felt my throat begin to constrict. "Yes, of course I do sir. They were my patients. I just regret that I could not do more to help them."

"If we called you earlier, do you think…" His voice trailed off and he puffed fiercely on his cigar.

"That's very difficult to say Mr. Southerland," I admitted. "This strain of influenza is a very violent one, it's effects swift and more likely then not, deadly."

Mr. Southerland nodded his head and smoked his cigar. "I cannot bring myself to visit their graves," he said at length. "I simply cannot bear it."

I swallowed against the lump forming in my throat. "I'm afraid sir, that I have some tragic news."

He raised his eyebrows and stared hard at me. "Tragic Doctor?"

I nodded. "As you know, my dear sir, that I am associated with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective of Baker Street."

He nodded. "My darling Kate so enjoyed your stories in the Strand."

"Last night, Father Doyle of Saint Mary's church went to him with a startling and horrifying tale."

I watched as Mr. Southerland's face began to pale, as though in anticipation of what I was going to say.

"It has to do with your daughters," I said gently.

"My daughters?" He repeated.

I nodded, and once again took a deep breath to steel my own nerves. "There is no easy way to say this I'm afraid, but you have my assurance as well as the assurance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes that all will be set right."

"What of my daughters Doctor?"

"They are missing."

I have always found it a literary conceit to say that the blood has drained from someone's face, but that is the only way I can describe the transformation that overcame James Southerland. I instantly leapt from my chair and grabbed the decanter of brandy that was on the sideboard. I poured a healthy dose in a glass and thrust it between the man's lips. When the brandy burned its way down his throat, some color returned to his cheeks.

"Huh—how long?"

"Since last night. Mr. Holmes wanted me to give you his assurance that he will find the earthly remains of your daughters."

The man seemed to stare through me. Never before had I seen such grief and torment on another's face. He opened his mouth to speak several times but words seemed to escape him. Then suddenly, his composure broke entirely and he sat sobbing violently into his hand.

I rested a comforting hand on his shoulder, which reminded him of my presence. Forcing himself to regain composure, he furiously wiped at his eyes.

"You will forgive me," he said, his breath hitching.

"There's nothing to forgive. I have delivered devastating news."

"You will keep this from my wife?"

I nodded. "But I must ask you if you can recall anything unusual occurring around the time that your daughters fell ill?"

He shook his head in the negative. "No. The governess was sick—then my girls were sick. Nothing strange."

I nodded and handed him my calling card. "If you think of anything, feel free to call upon me and Mr. Holmes at this address. I'll return here tomorrow to check on Mrs. Southerland."

Absently, James Southerland nodded.

"Might I trouble you with one other question?"

Again, Southerland nodded.

"Might I have the address where your governess can be reached?"

"I don't have her exact address," the broken man replied, "but I can give you the employment firm she came from. Hopefully that will help you."

"Of course."

He rose shakily to his feet and went to his desk. He rummaged within a drawer for several moments before producing a small calling card, which he handed to me. "Myron Exchange," he said, handing me the card. "They will be able to give you more information."

I shook his hand. "You have my assurance that all will be well by your daughters," I said gently. "I have every faith in the abilities of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

I took my leave of the Southerland family after repeating my promise to return on the morrow. I took a hansom to the address provided by the calling card and made inquiries as to the whereabouts of Miss Violet Granger. After a quarter of an hour, I found myself in yet another cab heading towards Miss Granger's current address.

When I reached the modest set of rooms belonging to her, I rang the bell and she answered looking pale and shaken.

"Doctor Watson? Is that truly you?"

I remembered her as a bright, eager young woman and was momentarily surprised to see the change in her. "Yes my dear," I said. "May I come in?"

"Certainly." She stepped aside and allowed me entrance into her home. "Would you like some tea?" She asked when we were both seated across a small table. "I can put a pot on."

"Don't trouble yourself, I shan't stay long. How are you feeling?"

"Extremely tired," she answered. "It has been a difficult time for me sir with the death of those two young girls." Tears briefly entered her eyes but she brushed them away with the back of her hand.

I extended my sympathies. "I know this is an odd question, but can you recall anything unusual occurring around the time you and the girls became ill?"

She thought for a few moments. "Nothing that I can recall. Mr. Southerland was more anxious then usual. I could tell something was weighing heavily on his mind."

"Have you any inkling as to what it was?"

She shook her head. "I just remember he had received something by post which upset him dreadfully. He gave me strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed especially by his children."

I considered her words. "And these instructions were unusual?"

"Aye sir," she replied. "He was usually a loving and doting father, never minding when his daughters were in the house or even in his study. Something wasn't right with him those days sir."

"And you've no idea what?"

She shook her head and stared down at the tabletop. "No sir."

"Miss Granger, are you all right?"

She looked up at me, her eyes rimmed with unshed tears. "No Doctor." She suddenly grasped one of my hands that was resting on the table and squeezed it tightly. "I'm so frightened."

I kept my voice pitched in my usual physician's tone. "What ever is the matter my dear girl?"

"You've always been kind to me Doctor Watson," she said softly. "Very kind and very generous. Might I rely upon your kindness once again?"

"You have my full attention." Never before had I seen the woman so distraught.

"I haven't been completely honest with you," she said, her voice trembling from suppressed tears. "I know what was bothering Mr. Southerland, because the same thing has happened to me." She let out a small cry of despair and squeezed my hand so tightly that I started to loose feeling in the appendage. "I have no one I can go to sir, I've no relations here."

"Then speak to me my dear," I said softly. "Certainly if there is any way I can help I will surely do so."

She smiled at me then, through her tears. "Three days before Kate and Anne died, Mr. Southerland received a strange letter by post. It was written on black paper sir with the strangest of symbols drawn upon the front of it. I should know sir because I'm the one that brought it to him. Young Kate had found it on one of the garden stones outside, near the gate. He read it, that much I know and afterwards he grew very reticent. He threw me out of the room immediately sir.

'Afterwards, I did something very unlady like sir. I spied on him through the keyhole. It was only because I was so concerned about it him sir. Never before had he been rude to me. I watched him as he threw the letter into the fire. He stood before the hearth and watched it burn.

'I thought that was the end of the matter sir. He never mentioned it again, but shortly after the girls and I grew extremely sick, so the matter was put from my mind."

"What made you think of it?"

Without a word, she rose from her chair and approached her small writing desk. She removed something from one fo the drawers and returned to where we were seated. Carefully, she pushed a square of black paper across the table towards me. When I picked it up, I gasped. On the reverse side of the card, was the same symbol Holmes had copied from the tree in the graveyard. Beneath it, written in crude writing was the phrase: diabolus manus manus est super vos.

"The devil's hand is upon you," I translated. "Do you have any idea what this means?"

Miss Granger shook her head.

"When did you receive this?"

"This morning. It was on my front stairs. I'm so frightened of it Doctor."

I patted her hand. "Do you mind if I take this?"

She shook her head. "I'd rather the horrid thing be gone from my house."

"Fear not my dear girl," I said.

We sat for some moments discussing other things, and then I took my leave of her, giving her a promise that I would call upon her the next day. When I was alone on the street, I removed the card from my pocket and looked it over. The lettering was done in gold, a strange color ink for an average person to have, and the writing was hasty and looked similar to the penmanship on Father Doyle's note. Not being able to do anything with it, I returned the card to the pocket of my coat.

Since it was still relatively early in the day, I hailed a cab and spent some hours at my club, enjoying a game or two of billiards with my friend Sampson, who was purchasing property in South Africa and wanted to know if I cared to partner with him in a real-estate venture. I declined his offer, and after having a drink with him, returned to Baker Street where I found Holmes pacing before the hearth and smoking heavily.

"Do you mind if I open a window?" I asked, barely able to see him through the thick haze of smoke in our sitting room.

"I would really rather you didn't," he replied without turning round to face me. "I am conducting a very important experiment."

I stifled my urge to cough and hung up my coat. "What experiment?"

"I am burning twenty four cigarettes at present," he said, "trying to determine the rate at which they burn. If you would oblige me and smoke one of them yourself, it would be most helpful."

Ignoring the acrid smoke burning my eyes, I picked up a cigarette from one of the trays on his chemical bench and began to smoke. The taste was most foul and one puff sent me coughing madly.

"It is strong I will admit that," my friend replied. "However, you usually do smoke a ships yourself."

"It's not the strength Holmes," I replied. "It's the taste. I feel as though I'm smoking a mint leaf."

Holmes chuckled and replaced one cigarette immediately with another.

"What is the point of this venture?"

"These smoke relatively quickly," my friend said. "I am trying to determine just how long square toes was at the graveyard, by attempting to gauge just how much ash was there. I have been doing this for a quarter of an hour so far and have yet to accumulate enough ash."

"You're certain this is the same cigarette?"

"It's a very rare blend Watson," he said. "A blend that Mortimer has not prepared himself. However, from the compounds I had given him, he was able to produce something comparable. Savor this smoke Watson, for I think it's the most expensive one you will ever have had."

I chuckled and we continued to smoke for some moments in silence.

"Did you have an enjoyable afternoon at your club? I trust you didn't loose too much money on your billiards game."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "How ever did you know that?"

"You have a blue chalk on the side of your right thumb as well as on your right index finger," he said. "The particular shade can only be gotten from holding and chalking a pool cue. And since you never play Sampson without a wager it was not a difficult deduction. Your cheque book is still locked in my drawer so I assumed the wager was not more then you had upon your own person. It was really simplicity in itself my dear fellow."

"You astound me." I said warmly.

He flashed me a lightening quick smile and then once again focused his attention on his cigarette.

"I won actually," I said. "Ten pounds."

"Brava Watson, you really are improving all the time." He extinguished one cigarette and picked up another. "He must've taken the cigarette butts with him for I did not find any evidence of them at the graveyard. And judging from my little experiment, he smoked a good number of them. I am assuming these cigarettes are so rare that they would be a definite clue to his identity. We must make it a point to find his tobacconist. Now, what news have you to tell me?"

Quickly I told him everything I had learned. When I finished my narrative, he was silent for some moments.

"So he lied to you?" He said at length.

"I cannot possibly understand the reason why. He's always been a very frank man."

"But hiding a missive from us that has upset him to the point of shunning his own children."

"You put it crudely Holmes," I shot back. "He was a most doting and loving father."

"Except in the last days of his the lives of his children."

"That is a lie. He was with me in that room, holding onto them tightly, begging them to be well."

"Then what was he hiding?"

"I know not," I admitted. I handed him the card that I had received from Miss Granger. "According to the governess, this was the same type of card he had received, and it terrifies her."

Holmes stared at the card and read the hastily written words. Quickly, he hurried to his chemical desk and removed a much wrinkled piece of paper from it. It didn't take me long to realize it was the note Father Doyle had brought the night before. Carefully, with a cigarette still burning in his mouth, Holmes studied the two sheets and then smiled briefly. "The writers are the same," he said, voicing my own conclusions. He set the card down upon his chemical desk and continued puffing on yet another cigarette.

"Holmes this atmosphere in here is growing quite thick."

My friend stared at the trays on his bench and desk. After nodding briefly, he extinguished the cigarette that he was smoking and threw open one of our windows. I took a deep breath as clear air began circulating through the room. "I do apologize Watson," he said. "But I think it's safe to say that our man was in that tree for three quarters of an hour." To punctuate his words, Holmes indicated the trays of ash. "Between the two of us," he said, extinguishing cigarettes, "we have created the same amount that I found in the graveyard."

"I am glad to hear you say so. What else did you discover?"

"The symbol that I found is indeed an inverted pentagram, and as Father Michaels stated it is used to conjure the dead from their graves."

"But surely Holmes, such an act is impossible."

"Indeed it is," my friend replied. "However, if that is the angle this man is playing, then we must go along with it as long as we can."

"What is the next course of action?"

"We must discover why this man Southerland has lied to you, and if the card truly frightened him as it does this Miss Granger we must learn why."

"And how do you propose we do that?"

"You said you were returning to Hanover Square on the morrow?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall accompany you. But now, we must return to the rectory. I must ask Father Doyle of these strange words."


	6. Chapter 6

"The Devil's hand?"

Holmes nodded. "Such a reference means little to me, but I am curious to see what a man of religious schooling will have to say." Quickly, he exchanged his dressing gown for his waistcoat and bundled into one of his heavier outer coats. "The temperature is dropping significantly," he said. "I suggest you wear something warm. Another venture into the graveyard may be necessary." I watched him disappear into his room only to return a moment later carrying his own dark lantern.

I once again donned my own greatcoat.

"The scrap of cloth you found," Holmes said as we strode into the cool evening air, "is of similar fabric as to the priestly grab that Father Michaels had given us. I do not doubt that it came from Father O'Brien's own clothing. We must also try to understand where the round toed boot imprints came from."

"Father O'Brien?" I suggested.

Holmes shook his head. "The boots in Father O'Brien's wardrobe were worn evenly, as I stated last night. No those boots belonged to another person."

He hailed a cab and quickly gave the cabbie the address. Without saying another word, we drove once again towards Saint Mary's Church.

"Ah Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson!" Father Doyle greeted us outside the rectory as we stepped down from our cab.

"Father Doyle," Holmes said in greeting. "Just the man we were looking to see."

The priest pulled his black scarf more tightly around his neck. "Might we speak inside sir? I've just been out for a long walk and am quite cold."

Holmes nodded in assent and we once again found ourselves inside the sparse sitting room.

"I'm afraid Father Michaels is out this evening," the young priest said as he hung his coat and scarf on the small peg next to the door. "One of our parishioners has grown ill and he's been called to give a bedside vigil. Can I get you gentlemen anything?"

"No we shan't stay long. We've work to do. But now, Father, I must ask you the most pressing of questions. Does the phrase 'the devil's hand is upon you' mean anything to you?"

Father Doyle considered Holmes' words. "The devil's hand?"

Holmes nodded. From the confines of his coat, he produced Miss Granger's card and handed it to the young clergyman. "There."

Father Doyle turned the card over in his thin hands, carefully reading the inscription and taking in the inverted pentagram. "It sounds like a kind of curse Mr. Holmes."

"Curse? Well this is most curious. As a Catholic, Father Doyle, are you apt to believe such things?"

"I do not believe in curses gentlemen, as I do not believe they work. I think they are agents of the devil designed to frighten and deceive the gullible. If someone believes strongly in anything Mr. Holmes, then anything can appear to be a truth. It is only upon close examination of the evidence does one begin to see and understand what really occurs."

"And yet a curse was your first instinct. Why sir?"

"The person who casts a curse believes strongly in what he is doing. It is in the power of the receiver to either make it come true or to discredit it. However, I feel the true depth of that understanding is more in Doctor Watson's profession then in my own."

"The power of the human mind," I said.

"Aye, quite so Doctor. Quite so."

"But could it mean something else?" Holmes pressed.

"It could be taken as a warning of possession, I suppose."

"Possession? Demonic?"

Father Doyle shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps one could take it to mean as much."

"That is suggestive," Holmes said. "Was not Father O'Brien reading of demonic possession?"

"Again Mr. Holmes, I have no way of knowing what Father O'Brien was studying. If he had taken an interest in demonic possession, I cannot understand it, but I also cannot condemn it."

"And you've no other thoughts upon the matter?"

"No sir. I think the affair is most curious. Wherever did you come upon such a ghastly piece of paper?"

"That is my concern Father," Holmes replied, plucking the card from the man's hands. "I merely came to gleam insight as to its meaning. You have been most helpful." Holmes turned to his back before once again turning round to face the priest. "Might it be possible to once again see Father O'Brien's rooms?"

Father Doyle floundered. "I don't know gentlemen. Father Michaels isn't here to—"

"Then let us go before he returns to chastise you. You may stay Father Doyle, we know the way. If there are any problems, tell Father Michaels that we forced our way in."

Without another word, Holmes turned on his heel and began heading to the back of the rectory where we would find the staircase that led to the room Holmes so desired to see.

"It's all right Father Doyle," I said to the bewildered priest. "We shan't be long."

When I reached Father O'Brien's room, Holmes was on the floor, halfway underneath the narrow bed. A few seconds later, he emerged, dust covering his hair and clothing, holding in his arm a small, leather book.

"Our priest had secrets Watson," he said.

"What is that?"

He did not respond, but hurried over to the desk and sat. Carefully, he opened the leather cover and began to read. After several long minutes, Holmes closed the book and stuffed it in one of his pockets. He then proceeded to tare apart the priest's wardrobe, throwing cassocks and clothing aside. Finally, he produced a pair of work cloths stained heavily with mud and grit.

"What the devil?"

"Our priest has spent a great deal of time in the graveyard studying."

"Studying what?"

"That my dear fellow we've yet to discover. However, I think we will learn a great deal by reading his journal. Ah Father Michaels how good of you to drop in."

I turned and saw a red faced Father Michaels standing in the doorway. "What is the meaning of this intrusion Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes held the work clothing out for the priest's inspection. "Have you any idea where such an article might have come from?"

"How the devil would I know that?"

"They were in the back of Father O'Brien's wardrobe. I daresay they're more the uniform of a dustman then a priest."

"What care of mine is his clothing? He is a man of usually meticulous habits and always dresses according to the standard uniform. Should I be alarmed if he has the clothing of a non-cleric in his wardrobe? Surely Mr. Holmes you go too far."

"I am sorry to hear you say that Father Michaels, as I thought the reason for your initial consultation was for me to find your missing brother."

"And have you made any progress?"

"Some yes," Holmes replied. "But nothing definitive as of yet. Father Michaels, what does the phrase 'the devil's hand is upon you' mean to you?"

He blinked at Holmes' question. "Should it mean anything?"

Holmes shrugged shoulders. "I'm simply asking if it does."

"No," came the gruff response. "I haven't the slightest idea as to its meaning."

Holmes nodded and set the clothing down. "Well then Father Michaels if we are intruding and putting you out in such a fashion, I suggest Watson, that we take our leave." My friend roughly pushed past the priest and started down the long hall.

"Wait, wait just a moment gentlemen." Father Michaels called to my friend. I watched as Holmes turned and stared at the two of us. "Please come back and let us not see if we can speak like civilized men."

Holmes remained standing impassively in the hallway. I did not understand the reason for his affronted attitude for although the priest was upset we had ransacked his brother's room, he had not acted cruelly towards us.

"Please sir," Father Michaels said, "don't forsake us."

After a few moments, Holmes slowly walked back into the room. Without saying a word to either myself or Father Michaels, he sat down heavily in the only chair \and removed a cigarette and a match from his pocket. The priest stood nervously in the doorway and then entered the room fully, shutting the door behind him.

Holmes began to smoke as he stared hard at the priest before us.

"The words do have a meaning sir," he said.

"So I assumed."

"It is difficult to speak about," Father Michaels said. He looked at my friend and pointed to the cigarette clamped tightly between his lips. "May I?"

Without a word, Holmes removed a cigarette from his case and offered it to Father Michaels. The priest inhaled the smoke gratefully.

"Thank you sir," he said. "The reason I held my tongue was I did not want to betray my friend's confidence. You must understand things from my point of view Mr. Holmes. I am bound by my profession to hear confessions, to give absolution and those confessions shall go with me to the very grave. I cannot breathe a word of them to anyone. That is the oath I took as a priest. Your question put me in a very awkward position, you understand, Mr. Holmes. While Father O'Brien did not exactly confess to me, he spoke to me in the strictest confidence." Once more the nervous priest inhaled smoke form his cigarette. "Before I say anything further, do you honestly think you can find him?"

"If he is alive and on this earth, you have my assurance I will do so."

"And you believe those strange words have something to do with his disappearance?"

Holmes weighed the man's words carefully. "There is a very strong possibility."

Father Michaels rang his hands together in his agitation. "Then it is my duty to you sir, to tell you everything that I know." The priest looked at me. "If I am to tell you everything Mr. Holmes, then I would like to do so in private."

I nodded and turned to exit the room. Holmes' fingers closed around my wrist like a vise, halting my movement.

"Watson has heard and kept the confessions of kings," my friend said. "He is the most trustworthy of fellows, and my dearest friend and associate. As I told your young friend, if you are willing to speak freely before me, then you must do so before him."

Father Michaels nodded his head. "Then let me begin. Doctor Watson, please do sit. This, I am afraid, will be a lengthy tale."

I looked around for a suitable place to sit and finding none, I perched myself on the edge of the bed.

"Your notebook Watson," Holmes said. "I will find it most useful if you take down what Father Michaels says."

I nodded and removed my notebook and pencil from the inside pocket of my jacket.

Father Michaels took a deep breath. "Father O'Brien is a good man, I must stress that to you gentlemen, and one of the best priests that I know. He is a true testament to his profession. He has both compassion and love in great amounts and shares such passions with his flock every Sunday. He knows dignity and—"

"While I find his professional accolades to be of immense interest," Holmes said dryly, "I would appreciate it if you would get to the point."

"About a week before he disappeared, he came to my room extremely agitated. This was quite unusual because Father O'Brien is a very level headed and self-contained man. He never allows mere trifles to upset him. I knew it could not be a crisis in faith because he has been a priest for many years and has counseled many on similar subjects. When I inquired as to what was wrong, he immediately began to tremble. Again gentlemen, you must understand such an action goes completely against his nature.

'He handed me the most curious of cards, without saying a word."

"This card?" Holmes asked, removing Miss Granger's card from the confines of his coat.

Father Michaels saw the card and gasped. "By jove, that's just the one."

"Pray continue."

"The phrase highly disturbed him, as it would any of us. He began—"

"Spending vast quantities of time alone in the graveyard."

"Yes, that's right. How did you know?"

"Do you know what he was searching for?"

Father Michaels shook his head. "I have no idea. He was always most reticent about his ventures."

"Any other strange patterns of behavior?"

Father Michaels pointed to the statute of the Virgin Mother on the windowsill. "He began praying more to her. She wards against all kinds of demonic activity."

Holmes looked in my direction and I caught the sardonic amusement in his eyes. I frowned at his reaction.

"He'd lock himself up in his room for hours gentlemen hunting the Bible for answers to this strange missive. Every night he would come into my room and beg me to pray with him, hoping God would dispel whatever evil forces lurked him. He became obsessed gentlemen, I'm not afraid to say so.

'He began seeing strange things, phantoms lurking in the darkest recesses of the rectory. Phantoms following him on the street during his rounds. The only place he thought he was safe was the church, so he began taking refuge there, staying for long hours after masses. When he first went missing, that's where I thought he had gone. I went with Father Doyle and searched every corner of it but to no avail."

"What sort of things did he claim to see?" Holmes asked.

"Strange shadowy figures, following him. Appearing and disappearing at will."

"And you've never seen anything of the sort?"

"No sir. None of us did. I asked the priests, discretely of course, if they noticed anything strange around. The answers were all negative."

"And what of Father Doyle?"

"He saw nothing either sir."

"Did he know of Father O'Brien's strange behavior?"

"Yes sir, he had an inkling. You see, Father O'Brien always kept his door open in the evenings, in case any priest wanted to come in for a chat, either social or in terms of a spiritual conflict or any such issue that would spark a young man to seek council from an older, more experienced member of the order. The last few days, his door had been kept shut and locked and he would answer it for no man, save maybe for myself."

"Did he have any ideas where such a missive came from?"

"That's the strange thing," Father Michaels said. "I believe he knew the source."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "What makes you say that?"

"Father O'Brien is a very practical man Mr. Holmes. Had such a threat came from an anonymous source he would not have gotten so upset."

"Why?"

"For him to have gotten so paranoid sir, he had to be convinced that the words were true. The only way he could have believed that was for him to know the source was reliable."

"Do you have any idea where this note could have come from? Did Father O'Brien associate with any specific individuals?"

Father Michaels shook his head. "Our work takes us amongst all classes Mr. Holmes."

"Do you know where he was the day he received this note?"

"It was outside the rectory with his name upon it."

"But where was he?"

"I know he was doing some work down in Whitechaple, it's nature I do not know."

Holmes nodded. "Well Father Michaels, thank you very much for your time."

"Was that at all helpful?"

Holmes nodded. "Very much indeed sir. Now, if you will excuse us, we have work that must be done. Come along Watson."

We took our leave of Father Michaels and returned to the rectory sitting room.

"What do you make of that Watson?"

"I make nothing of it," I said, keeping my voice pitched as low as that of my friend's. "It all seems like a vast tangle."

"Ah but not so complicated that we cannot get a strong hold," he replied. He walked to the peg where our coats hung and picked up his dark lantern from the floor. "Would you care to accompany me on a little walk?"

"Mr. Holmes where the devil are you going at such an hour?" Father Michaels asked as he entered the modest chamber.

"Into the graveyard sir," my friend replied.

"Would you like me to send Father Doyle to alert Mason of your presence?"

Holmes shook his head. "No that won't be necessary. I know where he lives and if we should require his assistance, I will surely notify him at once."

"Do be careful out there gentlemen," Father Michaels said.

Holmes flashed the priest a quick smile and then strode out the door, leaving me to follow.

"What is it that you want to see?"

"We know that Father O'Brien spent a great deal of time in the graveyard prior to his disappearance. His journal told us as much, as did his clothes. You will have noticed, Watson, that the mud and dirt on the clothing in the rectory was an exact match to the dirt found in this particular graveyard. We will, of course, collect the clothing from the rectory before we head to Baker Street, for there are some brown stains upon it that I want to subject to the Sherlock Holmes test."

I remembered, of course, our meeting in the laboratory at Saint Barts all those years ago where he first discovered his unique test for identifying blood stains on linen, despite the age of said stains. "You suspect foul play then?"

"I can make no judgment on that either way as of yet my dear Watson. However, we must rule out any and all possibilities. How is your leg holding up Watson? I observed you are limping more then usual?"

I gritted my teeth at his observation. The cold, damp air did put a strain on my old war wound but not enough where I needed to slow my pace. "Fine," I replied.

"I am most curious as to what Father O'Brien was attempting to learn out here amongst the cold marble sentinels."

I made no comment and we continued to walk in silence for some moments. Suddenly, Holmes stopped short and grabbed my wrist tightly between his fingers. Very slowly, he pushed us behind a rather large crypt with a massive angel looking down upon us.

"Not a sound, do you understand?" I felt his lips at my ear and felt his breath tickle my skin.

I nodded to show I understood his words.

Carefully, he threw the cover onto the dark lantern, plunging us into the other worldly blackness of the silent graveyard. Suddenly, very softly words started to carry to my ears. "Bagabi laca bachabe lamac cahi achababe karelyos. In nome de nostre Satanas: Lucifere excelsis."

I felt my face pale when I understood some of the nonsensical chanting and found my fingers tightly clasping the rosary beads Father Michaels had given us. Whatever was going on, the very name of Satan was be exalted!

Before a word could be uttered between Holmes and I, a loud piercing scream cut through the darkness, filling me with the utmost sense of extreme dread.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hi everyone! So sorry for the long wait between updates. I'm in graduate school and final papers had a way of stealing my time away from this fic. However, I'm back with another update. Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed so far. I really hope you continue to enjoy this work. And please, do let me know what you think by dropping a review. Thanks so much! **

* * *

><p>"Holmes," I whispered harshly.<p>

In an instant, his hand was pressed against my mouth. "Quiet."

Again a shriek ripped through the night air, it's unholy scream filling my mind with sheer agony and rooting me to my spot with fear. Holmes too, was equally affected for I felt his usually rock steady palm tremble violently against my lips.

"Colpriziana, offina alta nestra, fuaro menut," a voice shouted from somewhere behind us. "I name you, the dead which I seek, thou art the dead which I seek. Rise to this gate and answer my calling. Berald, Beroald, Balbin, Gab, Gabor, Agaba! Arise, I charge and call thee."

Another vicious scream tore through the graveyard, and then, just as quickly, everything fell silent and still.

"Stay where you are," Holmes' lips were once again at my ear, his voice slightly unsteady. "And for God's sake make not a sound. Do you understand?"

I nodded to show I understood. Without another word, Sherlock Holmes was gone, hurrying in an unknown direction as silently as the night air.

As I remained crouched behind the cold crypt, I felt the night air encroach around me thick and heavy. Its very blackness entered my nose and mouth, threatening to choke me and steal away the last of my breath. I forced myself to breathe deeply, past the rising gorge in my throat, trying to remind myself that the darkness was simply darkness and was not some charged beast threatening to harm me. It seemed as though I stayed there for hours, for I lost all sense of time in the murky blackness of the night. At last, when I thought I could stand no more of my own solitude, I felt a hand touch my shoulder.

"It's me," Holmes whispered before I could cry out in surprise.

I exhaled sharply. "For God's sake Holmes."

I heard him strike a match, and a moment later, the shadows darted away from the welcomed light from his dark lantern. I looked at my friend and saw that his face was unnaturally pale.

"Holmes?"

"They're gone."

"Who?"

"Squared toes and round toes," he said irritably.

"You saw them?"

He shook his head. "I saw the imprints of their boots. They seemed to have bloody vanished into thin air. Come along then, we've much to do."

Carefully, I stood, my knees popping loudly in protest, and followed my friend away from the crypt and deeper into the graveyard.

"You recognize the spot?" He asked when we stopped walking. He held the dark lantern high in the air; it's meager light barely cutting through the oppressive blackness.

I looked around, and once my eyes fully adjusted to the low lighting, I instantly knew our location. "The Southerland graves."

"Yes, the very spot."

He knelt and brought the light close to the earth. I followed suit and we were both staring at a dark wet spot on the ground. It didn't take long for the heavy metallic smell to fill my nostrils.

"Blood?" I asked.

He nodded. "The evidence certainly suggests so." He raised the lantern once again and pointed to several more similar wet patches on the ground.

I felt my blood grow cold when a terrifying thought brushed across my conscious mind. "Did we just hear a murder?"

My friend's silence did little to soothe my fears. He simply stood and began walking around the open graves, his head sunk upon his breast, his eyes cast downward. I remained where I was, rooted to the spot by a mixture of loathing and terror. Suddenly, my friend let out an ejaculation of surprise.

"Holmes?"

"These are not random pools of blood," he said. He beckoned for me and I quickly made my way to where he stood. He lowered the light until it was nearly touching the ground. "Do you recognize it?"

I strained my eyes and stared at the wet puddle, wondering just I was supposed to see. After a few moments, I began to make out the vague outline of a shape. "What the devil?"

"An inverted pentagram," my friend said. With his free hand, he began to draw the figure in the air above the blood. "Here you can see the five points, and here and here are the two inverted ones."

I nodded to show I understood. "What does it mean?"

He shook his head in the negative. "At present I am afraid I do not have an answer to your question." He once again began walking, slower this time, his eyes searching madly for something on the ground or in the trees overhead. "Here," he said, rushing over to something by a large tree. "This is what caught my attention and caused me to push you behind the crypt." He picked up two candle stumps. "They were lit not ten minutes ago."

I stared at the queer candles for a few moments, unsure what to make of them. They were thick and oddly colored—a deep crimson and the other black. I watched my friend put them both in one of his pockets as he one again began walking. He let out a little ejaculation of surprise and knelt down where found the candles. In his fingers, he clutched the end of a cigarette.

"He grew careless Watson," my friend said placing the cigarette end in an envelope. "We shall take this to Mortimer's and discover the exact mixture that he smokes. We will then find his tobacconist. Come with me now, I fancy a little walk. Can you manage?"

I nodded and followed my friend through various crypts and past various tombstones. His eyes were downcast, and he walked quickly as though he was intent on arriving somewhere.

"You've a grand gift for silence Watson," he said to me at length. "Something has happened to round toes," he pointed to the ground in front of us.

"What?"

"Whereas yesterday his weight was on the inside edge of his feet, it seems as though tonight he can barely take a normal step. See how his treads have a strange, shuffling gait?"

I stared at the ground where he was pointing and indeed noticed a difference. "Looks like some type of paralysis," I said.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Can something like that manifest itself overnight?"

"I would have to consult my medical texts," I admitted. "Unless there has been a sudden stroke or spinal cord injury that would result in such an injury I honestly do not know. Heavy narcotics could also be the cause."

Holmes turned to me. "What?"

"An opiate for example," I said. "Someone heavily under its influence could potentially lose function of his limbs which could cause such a tread pattern."

Holmes nodded. "Consult your medical texts tonight Watson," he said. "I want a list of substances which could cause such a reaction."

"Of course Holmes."

"It must be fast acting," he mused aloud. "Such a transformation has occurred in under twenty four hours. Bear that in mind Doctor."

It was my turn to nod.

"See square toes here," he pointed to the ground in front of us. "He appears to continually double back over his tracks."

"If his companion is under the influence of some type of substance," I ventured, "then I would think he is walking ahead only to have to return to round toes' side in order to better aid him."

"Well done Watson," Holmes said with a broad smile. He once again pointed to the ground. "In places you can see that round toes has stumbled considerably. It is no small assumption that square toes has pulled him along."

We lapsed into a comfortable silence and continued walking. Ten minutes later, I let out an ejaculation of surprise when our trail led us to the back of the rectory.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: So sorry for the delay! But here is the latest installment of "The Adventure of the Missing Priest." I just want to thank everyone who has reviewed thus far. I hope you will continue to enjoy this update. Please, as always, let me know what you think by dropping a review. Happy reading!**

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><p>"Holmes, what the devil?"<p>

He shook his head and stared at the door with a great deal of intensity. He dropped to his knees, the dark lantern mere centimeters from the earth. From one of his many pockets, he whipped out his lens and began to carefully examine the bottom of the door and its frame. He then spent a great deal of time inspecting the lock, pouring over every inch of the metal. He then removed from his pocket a small vial, which housed a strange white powder. Carefully, with a brush, he began to dust the metal.

"I created this some weeks ago," he said softly as he worked. "The powder should be absorbed by the oil left behind after skin has come in contact with a surface. What is left behind should be an exact fingerprint. This is the first time, my dear Watson, such a practice has ever been tried. Should this work, then I can safely say, with no small measure of pride, that criminal investigation will take on a whole new face thanks to my creation. Ah!" He ejaculated. With the handle of the brush, Holmes pointed to a several white smudges. "See here?"

I was astounded by his creation and even more caught up in his enthusiasm. Eagerly, I thrust my head forward, leaning over his shoulder to see what he had done. I watched as he removed his lens once again and began intently studying the white smudges.

"What do you see?" I asked.

"Quiet," he barked. "Keep your voice down." After a few moments, he put his lens away and twisted to face me. Even in the dim lighting, I could see his eyes shining brightly. "He was here," my friend said.

"Who?"

"The man who left the note at the Southerland graves. I can just make out his thumbprint amongst the others. He has a distinctive scar in the middle, which makes his print quite singular."

"Well done Holmes," I said.

"The lock has also been broken by a blunt, metal tool. Clearly whoever this man is, does not belong here."

"Should we alert Father Michaels?"

Holmes shook his head in the negative. "Let us see what we can learn for ourselves my dear fellow."

Carefully, Holmes grasped the knob and turned it. The door opened easily underneath his hand. He raised the dark lantern and crossed the threshold into the rectory. I quickly followed, and we found ourselves standing in a small hallway with a two doors leading to unknown rooms. After a quick examination of the ground, Holmes opened the door to his immediate left and held the dark lantern upwards, showing a set of steep stairs.

Without a word, Holmes motioned for me to follow. Together, in the utmost silence, we descended the stairs, my friend's dark lantern doing very little to alleviate the gloom which surrounded us.

"We're in some sort of cellar," I said softly.

"Allow me to congratulate you on a brilliant bit of deduction," my friend said dryly.

We said no more until we reached the bottom stair. Holmes covered his lamp and we stood shoulder to shoulder, in the darkness, listening intently. From somewhere in the distance, we could hear the church bells of Saint Mary's pealing the hour of eleven. All else was deathly still and silent.

He quickly pulled the cover off the dark lantern, blinding both of us momentarily.

Once my eyes adjusted to the light, I looked around the small cellar. It was a sparse room, much like its upstairs counterpart. In one corner, bits of lumber were haphazardly stored on top of one another in the most precarious of piles. Various tools littered a nearby area, some of them rusting severely from disuse. It was the woodpile, which attracted my friend's attention for he was off the step like a shot, moving towards it with long, quick strides.

"The dirt here," my friend said, setting down the dark lantern, "has been recently disturbed. We must uncover why."

Together we began moving pieces of lumber. We spoke not a word as we worked, our muscles straining with the effort. When we had finished, we found a large hole barely covered by a rotting piece of wood. My friend removed the last piece of lumber, and raised the dark lantern high above the hole. I gasped in surprise when I saw what was found there.

"Holmes, what the devil?"

My friend knelt beside the hole and removed a metal cross which was fused into a human skull, three candles matching those we found in the graveyard, and a small, wooden staff, it's end wet with mud. When he emptied the hole, he sat back on his haunches and stared at the oddities, his eyebrows knitted in concentration.

"What do you make of it?" I asked at length.

He shook his head and continued to examine each of the items. "This wood is not native to England," he said indicating the staff he lifted in his hands. "It has been carved carefully, notice the point at the end and the place for the hand to rest at the top? It's too small for a walking stick. Watson, if you would go fetch Father Michaels, I would be much obliged." He handed me his dark lantern.

"And I'll leave you in the dark?"

Holmes picked up the cross and began to examine it closely. "You shan't be long."

I nodded and hurried away from my friend. I rushed up the stairs in search of Father Michaels.

"Doctor Watson, whatever are you doing?" The startled priest cried when I burst through the cellar door and entered the small kitchen.

"Ah Father Michaels, just the man I was hoping to find."

"I didn't know you gentlemen were back from your walk. Would you care for some tea?"

I shook my head in the negative. "Mr. Holmes needs you in the cellar."

"What ever were you doing down there?"

"He's found something and would like your opinion on the matter at once."

Father Michaels set down his teacup on the counter and followed me once more down into the cellar.

When we reached the final stair, I looked towards the back and saw my friend crouched beside the hole, the three candles lit, surrounding him. Father Michaels and I made our way towards him as quietly as possible, trying our hardest not to break into his thoughts.

"Ah Father Michaels," Holmes said without looking at either of us. "Thank you for coming down here so quickly."

"Certainly Mr. Holmes, but I can't fathom how you came to be in such a place. The door is locked tightly."

"Someone has broken into your rectory Father, with the aid of a blunt metal tool."

Even in the dim lighting, I saw the priest's face turn pale. "That's impossible."

"I assure you sir, that it is not. But, now we must turn our minds to more immediate problems. What do these artifacts suggest to you?"

Carefully, Holmes lifted the skull with the cross-fused into it. At seeing the horrid artifact, Father Michaels fell to his knees and quickly crossed himself.

"God, Heavenly Father, have mercy on this man for he knows not what he possesses."

"While I appreciate your prayers Father," Holmes said dryly, "they are not doing much by way of telling me what this item signifies."

"It's a sign of the Devil himself Mr. Holmes. And I must ask you why in the good lord's name would you bring such an atrocious thing into my rectory?"

"I did not bring it anywhere Father, it was here that I found it."

"That is utter nonsense. Why should such a thing be here, in a house of God's servants?"

"That is what I was hoping you would be able to answer Father Michaels, as I did find it here, beneath your wood pile."

Father Michaels wordlessly shook his head in denial. "I will reiterate my statement Mr. Holmes. Such a finding is impossible."

My friend took the dark lantern from my hands and held it directly over the small pit. "These are the other items that were stored here."

With trembling fingers, Father Michaels lifted the small staff and held it between his fingers. "This is crudely done," he said at length.

"What is it?"

Father Michaels shook his head in the negative. "I know not."

"And these candles?"

He looked at the burning stumps of wax and shuddered involuntarily. "They are used in several satanic practices. You will of course, Mr. Holmes, dispose of such items immediately. No good will come of keeping them."

My friend smiled and once again picked up the skull. "It's human," he said.

"I bloody well know that," the irate priest replied. "The devil's mark is upon it Mr. Holmes."

My friend pointed to the back of the skull. I hurried behind him and strained my eyes to see what he was observing.

"You are correct my dear sir, but how do you know such a detail when you have yet to hold it?"

"Know what detail?"

"The inverted pentagram is carved into the back of this skull. From what you've told me—"

"I want that thing out of my rectory," the priest said, his very lips bloodless and trembling from a mixture of fear and rage. "Immediately. I want it destroyed."

"Fear not Father, I will take it with me."

"You'll not want to keep such a grisly thing Mr. Holmes. There's no telling what sort of demon could be living within it."

"If you believe in such notions," my friend countered.

"Mr. Holmes, this is not a mere belief. Keeping such a thing could mean compromising your eternal soul and that of your friend. The gravity of such a discovery goes beyond mere theology sir and into a realm of much more dire consequences." Without saying another word to either of us, Father Michaels once again crossed himself and began to pray. "Most Heavenly Father, I beg you to bless these men and keep them safe from all temptation and demonic power."

"Father Michaels," Holmes said, "I would appreciate some answers. What does this item signify?"

"I've told you it's a symbol of Satan himself."

"That does not tell me much."

"It should tell you everything you need to know. It's unclean and most unholy."

Holmes sighed in frustration. "Is there anything more specific you can tell me?"

The elder priest shook his head in the negative. "I can only reiterate my fears for you sir."

Holmes sighed and set the skull down beside the candles. "Father Michaels, can you account for the whereabouts of your priests this evening?"

Father Michaels nodded. "We had evening prayers together before bed."

"All of you?"

"Yes Mr. Holmes. It's a tradition Father O'Brien started himself."

"And what time were evening prayers?"

"Eight o'clock."

"And when they dispersed?"

"Each priest went to his room. Our schedules are quite busy Mr. Holmes and we do not keep late hours."

"And you would have known if any would have left?"

"Yes, of course I would. I am the one who does nightly rounds."  
>"Meaning what exactly?"<p>

"I check to ensure that everything is in order, and I lock the doors. I then retire to my own room, which is the closest to the stair. My door is always open, and should any priest leave his room, they must pass mine, and certainly I would have seen him. Besides, this evening I was having trouble sleeping myself and was fixing a pot of tea when Doctor Watson found me."

"And you heard nothing?"

"Not a sound Mr. Holmes, I was the only one stirring."

"And yet there was someone in your cellar."

"I still maintain that is an impossibility."

"Then come with me Father and see the door for yourself. It is quite obvious where the lock has been broken."

Father Michaels hesitated, and stared at my friend. "If someone has broken in, Mr. Holmes, then where is he now?"

"That I have no answer for sir, and I was hoping you would allow us to examine the rectory, each room if necessary."

Father Michaels was silent for a few moments, carefully weighing my friend's request. Finally, after several long moments, he nodded in assent. "I will help you in any way that I can."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry for the long wait for an update. My muse has hit again and updates will start coming more regularly. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, I greatly appreciate your feedback. As always, please let me know what you think by dropping a review. Thanks so much and happy reading!**

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><p>Holmes nodded, extinguished the candles and lifted the artifacts from the floor. He put the candles in his pockets and handed me the skull and staff in exchange for the dark lantern. "Father Michaels, pray lead the way."<p>

We searched every ounce of the rectory, but to no avail. Everything was, as Father Michaels said, completely normal. We reentered Father O'Brien's room and Holmes removed the dustman's clothing from the wardrobe. Then, after saying farewell to Father Michaels, we returned to Baker Street where Holmes instantly set to work on examining the brown stains on the priest's clothing.

"Begin pouring through that journal Watson," he said, handing me the leather bound book. "And then your medical texts. I need answers and I need them quickly."

I looked at the clock on our mantle and frowned when I saw it was already half past twelve. Taking a deep breath, and stifling a yawn, I sat in my chair and set to work.

The journal was a disjointed document, with hasty scribblings about God's grace and His divine powers of forgiveness. When I relayed as much to my friend, I heard him growl in annoyance.

"I need more then that Watson," Holmes said from his chemical bench. "Much more. Look deeper."

I continued to read, hoping to find something of interest to my friend. The more I read, the more I began to think that our missing priest was quite paranoid. He wrote of the strangest things such as demons following him throughout his day, hearing their unholy laughter during Sunday masses. When he had reached the last of his patience, he met a stranger, dressed all in black, in the graveyard who promised to give him solstice from his visions. They met daily, and performed a number of rituals, the meaning of which was always unclear to the troubled priest.

"And did he say what type of rituals?"

"Chanting in a foreign language, saying a type of mass—the meaning of which he was highly unsure."

"I see." Holmes was silent for some moments and then once again consulted his chemical bench. When he did, he let out a little cry of surprise.

"What is it Holmes?"

"There is blood on these clothes, especially around the collar of this shirt, and in vast quantities. Here, come look at the data and see for yourself."

I hurried over the desk and indeed found a great deal of rust color sediment at the bottom of a large beaker.

"That was taken from here and here," Holmes pointed to two deep brown stains on the collar of the shirt. "These stains directly match Mason's description of Father O'Brien at the graveside."

"His throat was cut?"

"That is what the groundskeeper said. Such stains on this clothing are indicative of his report."

"But Father O'Brien went missing after he said the mass of the Southerland girls," I said. "Wouldn't he have been wearing a cassock?"

My friend shrugged his shoulders. "I know not what he was wearing at the time. In order to discover that, we must once again speak to Mason. If he was not wearing his priestly garments, then I think it is safe to assume he was wearing this."

"But Holmes, are you saying that the priest is dead?"

"I am saying nothing of the sort Watson," my friend countered. "I am merely trying to piece together the facts as we know them. But now, my dear fellow, you can make a long arm and reach your medical journal. Find me something that would cause such paralysis."

"And what will you be doing?"

My friend reached for the wooden staff. "Attempting to learn exactly what kind of wood this is made of."

I did as my friend instructed and began pouring over various medical texts, hoping to find some strain of opiate which would cause such a powerful change of gait. After three quarters of an hour searching, I discovered something.

"Tetrodotoxin, which is a powerful and often deadly neurotoxin found in the skin of the pufferfish. When you combine such a substance with datura, then you can create a strange, dreamlike state from which a person rarely wakes."

"Datura, the plant?"

"The same."

"And what kind of dreamlike effect?"

"The person is conscious but barely. He can perform various tasks, but must be told what to do. His very brain function is decreased to that of a small child. Completely unable to think for himself."

"Very good Watson, thank you."

"Any luck with your studies?"

"I think," he said looking up from a book on botany he had open on his chemical bench, "this staff is made from the Taxus baccata, or yew tree. It is quite interesting to note Watson," my friend said, "but this tree is extremely toxic, and the symptoms of toxicity include a staggering gait."

I paused to consider his words. "Holmes, if it's toxic, you've been handling that all evening."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders and continued to stare at the wooden staff. "An interesting fact about the yew tree is it is believe to have mystical powers."

"How do you mean?"

"Some cultures believe that by inserting a staff of yew wood into hallowed ground, and saying certain incantations, you are able to raise the dead from their very graves."

"Surely you don't believe such nonsense."

My friend shook his head. "It does not matter what I believe Watson," he said. "What matters is what our mysterious stranger believes. The end of this staff is covered with mud of similar properties to that found in Saint Mary's graveyard. That tells me this staff has been there recently. The purpose of which, I must confess, is still at a loss to me."

I yawned. "My dear fellow, it is quite late, and I must make rounds early in the morning. I did promise Miss Granger and Mrs. Southerland that I would call upon them on the morrow."

"And so we shall. I sincerely hope you have not forgotten my request to join you upon the morrow," he said, staring hard at me from over his book.

"Of course not," I replied quickly. "However Holmes, this is going to be the first time you've ever accompanied me on a professional call. I will not allow you into the sickroom to speak with Mrs. Southerland. It is for her safety as well as yours."

After a snort of annoyance, my friend nodded to show he understood. He then returned his attention to his botany book, which was my official dismissal for the evening.

"Good night Holmes," I said and knowing there would be no reply, I hurried up to my own room and hurriedly changed into my nightclothes. When I was safely beneath my covers, I closed my eyes hoping that Morpheous would embrace me quickly.

My sleep was not a peaceful one however, for as soon as I closed my eyes, my mind was filled with swelling chanting, and bloody skulls with burning eyes plagued my dreams. When I could take no more of such nightmares, I awoke, sweaty and cold. As I sat alone in the darkness of my room, the last of the terrors retreating into their home in the back of my skull, I listened intently to the silence that surrounded me. Something was not right, although I could not, for the life of me, understand what gave me such thoughts.

Carefully, I stepped out of my bed and lit the candle on my bedside table. With its meager glow, I exited my room and went down the stairs and into the sitting room, wondering if my friend was still padding around hard at work. However, all that greeted me in the usually comfortable room was deathly silence and the otherworldly blackness of the deepest hour of the night.

Acting on impulse alone, I exited the sitting room door and found myself in the chilly hallway. As quietly as I was able, I walked down the seventeen steps, ensuring I avoided the ones the squealed, and went to the front door. It was locked tightly. All was as it should be, but I was still uneasy. Following my soldier's intuition, I unlocked the door and looked outside. All seemed fine until I looked down at the small stairs that led to our flat.

Lying on the stairs was a small dagger with a jeweled hilt, it's blade unsheathed and covered with dried blood. Affixed to the dagger was a small, black card. Even with the candle's meager glow, I realized it was the same card that had so frightened Mrs. Granger and filled Father Michaels with a sense of dread. I took a deep breath, and being mindful of how I handled it, I lifted the wretched thing and brought it inside.

Once I was safely inside the sitting room, I set the grisly calling card on my desk and turned up one of the gas lamps. Setting my candle aside, I carefully slipped the card out of the black ribbon it was tied with, making sure not to harm the knot, and turned it over. My blood chilled when I saw my friend's name written on it in the reddest ink I had ever seen. Although I didn't believe in curses per se, I thought of the fate that had befallen those who had received such a ghastly missive and shuddered.

Gently, I returned the card to its place on the dagger and turned down the lamp. There was nothing more I could do for the evening. Resisting the childish urge to check on my friend, I quietly hurried back up the stairs to my room, wondering what I could do to speed up the course of the investigation and keep my friend from any harm.

I could not sleep for deep terrors once again plagued my mind, this time of a more personal nature. When the first rays of light entered my window, I sighed with relief. Even with such ghastly artifacts in our possession, Holmes and I had survived the night. With that calming thought in my mind, I once again closed my eyes and this time Morpheous embraced me tightly, giving me the rest I so desperately needed.

I awoke some time later to find the sun streaming warmly through my windows and beating down upon my face. Quickly, I consulted my watch and found it was half past eight. I sprang to my feet and into my clothing, wondering why in the world my friend would allow me to sleep so late when there was so much work that had to be done. After hurriedly completing my toilet, I rushed into the sitting room certain I would find my friend bent over his chemical desk.

I was utterly surprised when I found the room empty and unchanged from last night save for the unopened breakfast try upon our table, left there by our long suffering landlady. I went to the table, certain I would find some correspondence from my friend telling me where he had disappeared to with such haste, but found none. I checked my desk and realized that the dagger had not been moved since last night. Surely, Holmes would not have missed such a startling desk adornment, so a reasonable deduction was that he had not yet awoken. Such a thought was surprising, for my friend was ordinarily very regular in his habits, and routinely woke before me, especially with a case at hand. Once again, I resisted the urge to enter his room and instead forced myself to sit at the table. I convinced myself that by the time I finished breakfast, my friend would be awake and admonishingly me harshly for allowing him to rest.

However, such was not the case. I finished breakfast and there was still no sign of my friend nor any movement from his room indicating that he was awake. Remembering that he had been handling a poisonous plant all evening, I fairly leapt from my chair and rapped firmly on his door.

"Holmes?"

When he did not answer, I opened the door and stepped into the chamber. Even from a short distance away I could see not all was well with my friend. He had grown paler during the night and a great sheen of sweat was broken out on his forehead.

"Holmes?"

Cautiously, I approached his bed and laid a hand on his shoulder. Even through the thin nightshirt, I felt heat radiating from his skin. "Holmes?" Very gently I shook him until he stirred. When he finally opened his eyes they were slightly glazed over and unfocused. "Holmes are you all right?"

He blinked several times and looked up at me. "Watson, old man, what time is it?"

"Nine o'clock. How are you feeling?"

He shook his head. "Never mind that, we've work to do."

I put a restraining hand on his arm. "You've a fever."

"A mere trifle," he rasped.

"Holmes with the strain of influenza going around I will not allow you to be so careless about your health. Besides, you were handling a dangerous plant last night."

"I am not poisoned Watson, so you may clear your head of such nonsense. I've a mere cold perhaps, nothing more. Now we are wasting precious time."

"Holmes—"

"As I am an adult and have been for some years, unless you intend to hold me here by force, I suggest you move your hand."

I nodded and stepped away from his bed. He stood up and immediately swayed on his feet. Instantly, I grabbed his arm before he fell backwards. "Easy Holmes," I said, lowering him back onto the mattress so that he was seated on the edge. "What's the matter?"

He shook his head and closed his eyes. "The room just spun out of control," he admitted.

"Head between your knees," I pushed his head down.

"I feel like a damn fool," he growled.

I grabbed his wrist between my fingers and instantly began taking his pulse. Although it was elevated, he was in no danger. "Feeling better?"

"Yes," he replied.

I grabbed hold of his shoulders. "Now bring your head up slowly." I guided his movements as I spoke until he was seated upright.

"Thank you Watson," he muttered looking away from me.

"If you would oblige me and lay back down, I will examine you more carefully."

"Nonsense. Watson, honestly, you've wasted enough of my time. Stand aside and allow me to get dressed in privacy. If you want to be of help, you can pour me out a cup of coffee."

Even though it was against my better judgment, I exited his room. My mind was going at a rapid rate, wondering just what could have made him so ill so quickly. My thoughts were interrupted however, when a few moments later, my friend burst into the sitting room, his favorite grey blanket thrown round his shoulders.

"If we are to sit here, then at least have the good curtsey to light a bloody fire," he growled.

"Mrs. Hudson has prepared breakfast. It will do you good to eat something."

"There is no time for food I—I daresay Watson, what's this?"

I did not need to turn round to know that he had spied the dagger on my desk. "I found that early this morning on our steps."

"Did you touch it?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Holmes, I brought it inside."

"The ribbon on it has been disturbed. I need to know if you are the one who has done it or—"

"Yes Holmes, I am guilty."

He nodded and removed his lens from his own desk and set about examining the item with great gusto, his own illness quickly forgotten.

"This is a mooring hitch knot, used quite often as a quick release knot so that one does not have to leave his boat to untie it. It is not the most stable of knots and isn't really used in sailing, however you will find it in a sailor's repertoire. This ribbon has been cut with the edge of a blunt knife, see how the edges are bent and frayed? The work was hurried. Now let us see what this ribbon is holding."

Carefully, my friend untied the mooring hitch knot and chuckled when he saw the black card fall off the dagger. "Someone, my dear fellow, is trying to put Satan's hand upon us."

When I did not immediately reply, my friend raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Do not tell me, my dear Watson, that you have fallen victim to such fanciful nonsense?"

"I have done nothing of the sort," I replied, "however, such a threat cannot be taken lightly Holmes."

"I have been threatened by much greater men, my dear fellow, and yet I am still here with my heart still beating and my brain still working. Before we go, I would like to subject the substance on the edge of this dagger to a few tests."

My friend began scraping bits of dried blood from the blade and dropped the scrapings into a beaker filled with water. He applied a few drops of a blue substance and waited a few moments for a result.

"It is blood, but whether it is animal or human I cannot be certain," he said showing me the rust colored powder resting on the bottom of the beaker. "I need to devise a test to distinguish between the two. However, there is no time for that now. We have an appointment to keep. Come along Watson."

Without another word, my friend dropped his blanket on the settee, grabbed his greatcoat from the rack beside the door and strode out of the sitting room, leaving me behind to follow. When I caught up to him on the street, he was in search of a hansom.

"Holmes, do you honestly think this is wise?"

"What Watson?"

"You going out in such frigid weather? You don't look at all well."

"There are more pressing matters at hand then my health. Ah here's a cab."

After I gave the cabbie the address we desired, Holmes and I began speeding away from Baker Street towards Hanover Square.

"How were you discovered?"

"I beg your pardon?" He asked.

"Whoever sent that note. How did they know of your involvement in this case?"

"The logical explanation is that we have been watched. I'm not yet certain by whom. However, I am hoping that your man Southerland can shed some light on this mystery."

We lapsed into a comfortable silence until we arrived at our destination. We alighted from the cab and I grasped Holmes' sleeve.

"Be gentle on the man Holmes," I said softly. "Not only has he lost his two daughters, but he has also just learned that their bodies have gone missing. He is broken."

"Your concern for your patients is touching Watson," my friend replied. "A true testament to your profession."

Without another word, I pulled on the doorbell and we were greeted a few moments later by the Southerland girl.

"Ah Doctor Watson! So good to see you again. Mr. Southerland said you were coming back. How is the missues fairing? I haven't heard a word about her condition."

"I am hoping, my dear girl, that Mrs. Southerland will make a full recovery. This is my friend and associate Mr. Holmes."

"Come in gentlemen and let me take your coats."

After giving our coats to the maid, Holmes and I found ourselves in Mr. Southerland's airy study. A few moments later, we were greeted by James Southerland himself.

"Good morning Doctor Watson, Mr. Holmes." He approached us and shook our hands warmly.

"How is your wife sir?" I asked him.

"Her fever seems to have gone down," he replied.

"I am glad to hear you say that," I said. "I will go see her at once."

"And I would like a word with you Mr. Southerland, if you will oblige me?"

The man nodded. "Of course sir. Doctor Watson, do you need me to show you the way?"

I shook my head in the negative and picked up my black medical bag. "If you will excuse me gentlemen." I took my leave of the two men and hurried up the small staircase until I was standing outside the sickroom. I rapped on the door twice and waited until I heard Mrs. Southerland's feeble voice bidding me entrance.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hello all! After a long delay due to the hurricane, I have finally returned home! Here is my latest installment of "The Adventure of the Missing Priest." I hope you enjoy it! And please, do let me know what you think by reading and reviewing! **

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><p>"Good morning my dear lady," I said to her as I approached her bed. Contrary to her husband's observations, to my trained eye the woman looked no better but worse!<p>

"Doctor Watson, how good of you to come."

"I told you I would. How are you feeling?" I set my bag down on the edge of her bed and gently lifted her wrist to feel her pulse. Much to my chagrin it was weak and severely erratic.

"I've put on a good show for my husband," she said with the faintest of smiles.

"Come come now my dear, all cannot be that bad. You will be well again soon enough."

She fixed me with the most heartbreaking of smiles and lifted my hand from her pale wrist. She held my hand tightly in her own and looked up into my eyes. "May I tell you something Doctor?"

I nodded. "Certainly."

"Do not try to save me," she said softly. "You are a valiant Doctor, and have been a dear friend to us for so many years. You've a kind heart and I know you will try to go against my wishes, but I beg of you do not. Without my daughters I have absolutely nothing more to live for."

I took a deep breath and squeezed her hand. "Your death will destroy your husband."

"My husband is a strong man Doctor Watson. He will heal. I am not strong, and cannot possibly continue."

"You've thought this through then I assume?"

She nodded. "All night long."

I gently disengaged my hand from hers and attempted to hide the fact it was trembling by plunging it into the depths of my medical bag. Never before had I ever been faced with such a serious request. It was my duty to try and save her, I was bound by my profession—and yet, I knew the terrible feeling of grief all too well. How many times did I almost succumb to it?

I removed my thermometer from the depths of my medical bag. I inserted it under her tongue and waited until I could get a reading. When I removed my instrument, I frowned when I saw that it had gone up from last night.

"You've a very high fever," I said. I went about removing small vials and syringes from my bag. "I must try to get it down."

"Doctor I want to die."

"I know what you want," I barked hotly. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Never before had I shouted at a patient. "I am sorry, and beg of you to forgive me."

She smiled at me. "There is no need to apologize Doctor Watson. I know all too well the position in which I have placed you."

I began to mix a solution which I prayed would at least stop her fever from rising to dangerous levels. "I understand your wishes quite clearly, and can sympathize with them to a point. But madam, you are not behaving like yourself. That tells me how far gone your fever really is."

She sighed. "These thoughts, I do not know from where they come. Blackness suddenly enters my mind and I can think about nothing but death."

I pulled a mixture of the solution into a syringe. "You are still grieving, such thoughts are only natural."

She shook her head and once again grabbed my hand. "Doctor, sometimes I feel that these thoughts are not my own. I'm so frightened."

I patted her hand and injected the mixture into her blood stream. "Shhh, all will be well I am sure."

"Stay with me until I am sleeping?"

I nodded and put away my supplies. "Of course."

When I sat at the edge of her bed, Mrs. Southerland took one of my hands in her own. "You did this for my daughters," she observed.

I squeezed her hand but said nothing, for words did not come easily to me at that moment.

"Kate was very fond of you, as was Anne of course. I remember, during their last hours, how you sat with them in their fevered states and told them the most wonderful stories as you fought so hard against that terrible fever."

"I wanted to give them some kind of comfort," I said. I watched as Mrs. Southerland's eyelids began to grow heavy.

"They were comforted by your presence," she muttered, "as am I."

I felt a lump rise in my throat and I forced myself to swallow it. Now was not the time for idle sentiments. "You'll be fine Mrs. Southerland."

"I miss them terribly Doctor."

"I know," I whispered, squeezing her hand gently. "I know."

"I just miss…" her words tapered off and her eyelids closed. When her breathing evened out, I gently disengaged my hand from her own and carefully stood upright.

I picked up my medical bag and sighed. I would need to watch her constantly, doing everything in my power to reduce her raging fever. I knew I could not fail this family again. The thought of an all night vigil ordinarily would not have bothered me, but I remembered Holmes' mysterious illness, which had manifested itself this morning. I did not know if it was safe to leave him alone for any great length of time. Knowing the solution to my quandary would not be found in Mrs. Southerland's sick room, I quietly took my leave and hurried to her husband's study, where I found him and Holmes deep in conversation.

When Mr. Southerland spied me in the doorway, he instantly leapt to his feet and nervously approached me. "How is she?"

I cleared my throat for I did not know what to tell him. "She will have to be watched to ensure that her fever does not rise to dangerous levels." I looked at my friend who was still comfortably seated in the overstuffed armchair. Although extremely pale, he did not appear to be in any form of distress. "I must return to Baker Street to get some supplies. It is imperative that I return here within the hour."

"You will stay then?" Mr. Southerland asked in a voice that dared not to hope.

I nodded. "I will do everything in my power to save your wife."

"I do not know how to thank you."

I shook my head. "This is not the time for gratitude. Save that for when she is well."

Mr. Southerland nodded. "Is there anything I can do in the mean time?"

"Stay by her side. Keep applying cold compresses to her forehead. And," I reached into my bag and found a powder I had mixed the day before, "mix this in water and have her drink it if she wakes before I return."

He nodded. "Yes Doctor."

Holmes rose from his chair and pumped Mr. Southerland's hand warmly. "You have my assurance sir, that I will find your daughters." My friend looked at me, "come along then Watson."

I bid Mr. Southerland farewell, assuring him that I would return within an hour's time. When we were standing outside the house, I turned to my friend. "First, how are you feeling?"

He waved away my words with his hand, but provided no answer.

"Did you learn anything?"

"Perhaps Watson," he said, "perhaps. And you?"

"I need you to call upon Miss Granger, I will provide you with the address. You must tell her that I was called away on a medical emergency. I know you would like to speak with her, but you must be gentle Holmes, she is in a precarious state. Everything around her she finds terrifying."

"Fear not Watson," my friend replied. "I shall be as gentle as a lamb."

I quickly told my friend Miss Granger's address. "I must go to Baker Street at once and fetch some supplies. Should you need to contact me, you may do so at this address."

He frowned. "You will be here long?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "As long as necessary. Holmes," I said remembering the thinly veiled threat my friend received, "I pray you, do be careful."

He flashed me a lightening quick smile. "Take care Watson."

We parted company then, he to interview Miss Granger and I to Baker Street to fetch more medical supplies from my room.

As I walked in search of a cab, my mind reeled with conflicting thoughts. Even though I knew I belonged at my patient's side until the danger had passed, I was still uneasy about leaving my friend alone when so many things were set against him. My thoughts were interrupted, however, when I found a hansom and provided the driver with my address.

As I bounded towards my destination, I could not keep Mrs. Southerland's desperate plea from my mind, and the memory that she felt as though her thoughts were sometimes not her own. I cast my mind back to the journal that Holmes had found in Father O'Brien's room and remembered that the missing priest had voiced similar concerns. I knew, despite my time restraint, that I would need to search Father O'Brien's journal and find the passage that was pulling at my brain.

So lost in my thoughts was I, that I did not realize that my cab had pulled up in front of my home. After the cab driver alerted me to this fact, I alighted and paid my fare. When I turned towards my home, my knees nearly gave way beneath me and my blood turned to ice in my veins as I stared at the horrible sight which was before me.

On the face of our door a large inverted pentagram was drawn in blood, its point dripping and causing a small pool on the stair. In the middle was my friend's calling card, torn and bloody, affixed by a long and vicious looking knife. When I finally composed myself , I burst into the hallway, calling frantically to our landlady.

"Whatever is the matter Doctor?" She asked when she heard my frantic shouts. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"You must pack a bag immediately," I said, fearing for her safety. The message on the door was clearly meant as a threat, and I did not need her harmed in any way. "And go visit your sister in Kent. Stay there for at least a week."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise, for never before have I given her an order.

"Mrs. Hudson, I beg of you, do as I say." To emphasize my point, I reached into my pocketbook and removed enough money for a round trip ticket. I thrust the bills into her hand. "And quickly. When you leave, ensure it is by the side door. Do not, under any circumstances leave by the front. Do you understand?"

Wordlessly, she nodded. She looked at me with concern in her eyes. "Will you and Mr. Holmes be okay?"

"Of course," I said with much more confidence then I felt. "Now waste no more time."

I watched her reenter her flat and then I raced up the seventeen stairs to the rooms that Holmes and I shared. After ensuring all was well in the sitting room, I went into my own room and began restocking my medical bag. As my fingers removed bottles, syringes and powders from the shelves, I struggled to comprehend just what to do. Surely I had to remove the graffiti from the door, but was it wise to do so before Holmes saw it? I consulted my pocket watch and groaned when I saw the time. I had to hurry to make it back to Hanover Square, but I was fraught with in decision. Should I remain and wait for my friend? Never before did I ever feel so helpless.

Thankfully, Providence intervened for I heard the sitting room door open and heard the strident voice of my friend calling my name.

"Holmes," I said, hurrying into the sitting room. "Thank God."

My friend looked pale and drawn and immediately I knew that something was amiss. "What's the matter?"

He shook his head and looked into my eyes. "I'm so sorry old man."

I searched his face, looking for some sort of explanation, but he was wearing an inscrutable mask. "Holmes?"

"I was too late," he said. "The girl is dead."

I grasped the back of Holmes' armchair for support. "How?"

"She hanged herself."

I closed my eyes against the waves of guilt that began to crash over me. I never should have left her alone.

"She left a note, which was disjointed and difficult to understand. It resembled the ramblings in Father O'Brien's journal. Like our missing priest, she began to see things-shadows following her, ghastly images in her sleep."

I shuddered when I thought of Mrs. Southerland's words. How similar the three narratives sounded. I told as much to Holmes and he shrugged his shoulders.

"My main concern, at present Watson, is getting a sample of the blood used on our door as well as seeing if any fingerprints can be lifted from the knife hilt."

"Holmes, I'm a little more concerned about your wellbeing then any samples or fingerprints!"

My friend looked at me. "I beg your pardon?"

"Whoever this person is, he means you harm! He's already—"

"Calm yourself Watson. I shall be fine, go to your patient."

"But Holmes—"

"I promise you Watson that I will do nothing dangerous whatsoever without my trusty Boswell at my side."

Knowing it was little use arguing with him, I returned to my room to retrieve my black medical bag from its resting place. "How are you feeling?" I asked when I reentered the sitting room.

"Perfectly fine, I can assure you." He flashed me a lightening quick smile which told me all too well that he was anything but. "Fear not my dear fellow. Should I require your presence I know where I can find you."

I went to the door then turned around. "I fear leaving you alone here Holmes. I sent Mrs. Hudson to Kent for the week, fearing for her safety after the vandalism."

"A very wise decision my dear fellow, very wise. Now, if you would please excuse me, I've a great deal of work which much be done, as do you."

Knowing all too well when I was being dismissed, I left our set of rooms and found a cab, which took me back to Hanover Square.

When I arrived at my destination, I paid the driver and alighted my cab. I took a deep breath and rang the bell pull.

"Doctor Watson," It was Southerland himself who answered the door. "Thank God you've come back."

"How is she?" I asked, pushing past him and stepping into the entranceway.

"She's awake but quite delirious. I don't understand a word she is saying."

I nodded and shouldered out of my greatcoat, which I handed to him. Then, without another word, I hurried up the stairs and once again entered the sickroom of Mrs. Southerland.

"Mrs. Southerland?" I asked when I stepped into the room. Quietly, I closed the door behind me. I looked at the bed and saw her lying quite still underneath the covers. From my short distance, I could see she was terribly pale and was sweating profusely. "Mrs. Southerland, can you hear me?"

Her eyes opened at the sound of my voice, and weakly she turned her head in my direction. Much to my surprise, her condition had greatly deteriorated since I had seen her last. When she recognized me, her lips twisted in a half smile. "Doctor Watson," she rasped.

"Hello my dear girl," I said gently. "How are you feeling?"

"I don't know," she answered.

I set my medical bag aside and removed my thermometer. Deftly, I inserted it beneath her tongue and took out my pocket watch. After the allotted time, I removed my instrument and frowned when I saw the reading. Despite my best efforts, her temperature was still climbing.

"I'm seeing things Doctor," she said softly.

"It's your fever my dear, nothing more." I moved from her bedside and hurried back to the door. I called for the maid who immediately came running towards me. "I need ice cold water and several sheets of linen. Get these to me immediately." The housekeeper nodded and hurried to fetch the things I required.

"I'm seeing things Doctor," my patient repeated. "Strange things. They frighten me."

"I'm certain they do," I said. "But you must not think too much of them. Fevers affect the brain in many odd ways."

Weakly she shook her head. "These are no hallucinations sir."

"Doctor Watson?"

I hurried to the door and was grateful to see the maid standing before me with a basin of water in her hands and several pieces of linen draped over her shoulder. "Very good my dear, very good. Come in at once." I stepped aside and allowed the maid to enter the room. "Set that right next to the bed, thank you," I said to her. "Now, if you will help me begin to apply cold compresses to Mrs. Southerland's forehead and neck, I will be much obliged."

The maid nodded. After divesting myself of my jacket, and rolling up my shirtsleeves, I sank my hands into the freezing water and soaked a cloth. Then, after wringing out the excess, I draped the soaking material across my patient's forehead. Mrs. Southerland shuddered at the contact.

"I know it's cold," I said soothingly, "and I do apologize."

Together, the maid and I began draping soaking cloth pieces across Mrs. Southerland's exposed neck and shoulders. When we finished, I asked the maid to fetch two large glasses of water.

"You must help me," my patient moaned, gripping my hand tightly. "The things I see, they frighten me so."

"You must rest my dear lady. All will be well as soon as we can get this fever down."

"They are horrible Doctor Watson. I cannot even begin to describe them."

"I understand," I said. I began digging in my medical bag, hunting for vials and powders. Using my mixing bottle, I began to mix a solution, which I hoped would help her. "However, you must realize these are merely hallucinations. They will not harm you; they are simply a reaction from your fever. You must not think too much of them."

"Doctor?"

I turned my attention to the maid and told her gently where to put the glasses of water. When we were once again alone, I drew a measure of my mixture into a syringe.

"You'll feel a slight prick," I said, rolling up the sleeve of her nightgown. Carefully, I brought the syringe to her arm and pressed the plunger home. As soon as I removed the syringe from her arm, her fingers closed tightly around my wrist.

"You must listen to me," she said with more strength then I thought she had.

Gently, I disengaged myself from her fingers and returned my syringe to my medical bag. "I am listening to you my dear."

"I'm getting strange thoughts, and they are growing worse."

"What kind of thoughts?" I asked.

"Horrible ones. They don't seem like my own."

"Fevered dreams can sometimes—"

"I know things. Things that I shouldn't." A wildness came into her eyes at that moment which momentarily frightened me. They were burning brightly, a far contrast from her normally placid gaze.

"What kind of things?"

"I know something that will interest you." Her voice dropped a pitch lower and seemed more grating then normal. It was a tone I had never before heard her before employ.

Ordinarily I would not dream of indulging in the wild fantasies of a fevered patient, but something about her at that moment, made me question her further. "What might that be?"

"Someone," she said in a growling tone, "is going to die."

For reasons unexplainable to me, my heart began beating a nervous tattoo against my ribs. "Someone?"

"A man," her tone of voice was almost giddy and I wracked my brain to try and discern a reason behind her sudden shift of mood. "He's very ill but there's no way to treat him. He's going to die the most horrible of deaths."

"But who is this man?"

If possible, her eyes grew darker and burned more brightly. So twisted were her features that I no longer recognized them as her own. "Sherlock Holmes."

I closed my eyes tightly to right the room which momentarily spun out of control. When I recovered from my shock and opened my eyes, I saw my patient staring cruelly back at me.

"He's going to die Doctor," she growled at me, "I'm going to make sure of it."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"I will destroy him and use him for my own," she said in a voice very far removed from her own. "You will never be able to stop me. Do you hear me you vapid cripple? You will never defeat me!"

"Mrs. Southerland!" I exclaimed. My heart pounded fiercely against my ribs. Never before had I ever seen a patient so far gone.

"That is not my name!" She screamed. Suddenly, she lunged at me with a speed and strength I did not know she possessed. Despite my efforts to the contrary, her fingers found purchase in my shirt and she began to twist and pull at the material. "Do you hear me? That is not my name!"

I grabbed her hands with enough strength to bruise her frail wrists and fought to extricate myself from her grip. But try as I might, she held fast. "For God's sake, my dear lady!"

"Don't you realize something Doctor?" She asked, favoring me with a lecherous grin. "God's not here. No one is going to save you." As if to emphasize her point, she suddenly pulled forward, tearing the material of my shirt and toppling me off my balance. I fell onto the bed, almost crushing her beneath my weight. "I do like you this close to me Doctor. It feels just right." She gyrated her hips towards me in the most unlady like fashion.

Not knowing what else to do, I struck my patient across the face with my open palm. "Mrs. Southerland!"

Her head fell backwards against the pillows and I pushed myself up from the bed. My mind reeled. Never before had I ever experienced a patient so far removed from herself. I took several deep breaths in effort to calm myself and stared hard at my patient, realizing, with some chagrin, that her cheek was turning red where I had struck her.

"Doctor Watson?" I nearly leapt at the sound. It was Mrs. Southerland's own voice, and despite the fact it sounded very weak, it was the tone I recognized.

Her eyes, I noted with some degree of elation, were no longer burning brightly or shining with inherent cruelty. "My dear girl," I said stepping closer to her, "are you all right?"

"How long have I been asleep?"

I blinked in surprise. She remembered nothing. Without saying a word, I removed my thermometer from my medical bag and once again put it beneath her tongue. Much to my infinite joy, her fever had broken. I sighed in relief and she stared at me.

"Your fever has finally broken," I said to her. "I believe you will make a full recovery."

"That is good to hear," she whispered. "I am dreadfully tired."

"Then you must rest." I removed a powder from my medical bag and mixed it into a glass of water. "Here," I said helping her lift her head from the pillow. "Drink this slowly. It will help you sleep."

She did as I instructed and when she finished the draught, I arraigned the bed clothes so she was more comfortable. I was willing to do anything to keep my mind off her strange premonition. As I pulled away to begin packing up my medical supplies, she once again grabbed my wrist. I felt my heart sink and I forced myself to look into her face without showing any of my fear. Thankfully, although haggard, it was placid and gentle.

"I don't know how to thank you," she said softly.

"There is no need," I replied forcing a smile. "Just rest. All will be well."

I stood for a few moments, and smiled when I felt her hold on my wrist slacken. Her breathing had evened out and Morpheous had taken hold of her. I carefully put her arm under the covers and drew them up to her chin. Then, I packed my medical bag and put on the jacked I had thrown to the floor in my haste to help her. After a few moments of fixing it, the tare she had made in my shirt was completely invisible. With my mind reeling, I quietly opened the door to the sickroom and took my leave.

"How is she?" Mr. Southerland asked as soon as one of my feet crossed the threshold into the hallway.

I motioned for him to be quiet and closed the sickroom door behind me. "She is sleeping now," I said softly. "Her fever has broken."

Mr. Southerland sighed with relief and leaned heavily against a wall. "That is good news indeed," he said.

I nodded. "Should she start exhibiting any strange behavior or symptoms, do not hesitate to telegram me at once. Do you understand?"

He nodded and pumped my hand warmly. "Thank you."

I nodded and feeling a pressing need to return home, I gently disengaged my hand from his. "Should you need me, I will return no matter the hour."

James Southerland nodded and escorted me to the door. After another brief word with the man, I took my leave and hurried into Hanover Square in search of a hansom.


	11. Chapter 11

**After a very long hiatus I am back with this story. I hope you enjoy the latest installment. As always, please read and review. **

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><p>When I secured a cab, I gave the cabbie my address and once we were speeding towards Baker Street, I leaned back against my seat and attempted to make some sense out of all that I had witnessed. When we finally arrived at my door, I fairly leapt from my cab and rushed up the stairs. As I fumbled in my pocket for my keys I noticed that my friend had neglected to clean the door. After I unlocked the door, I stepped over the pool of congealed blood and fairly raced up the seventeen stairs into our rooms.<p>

I frowned when the sitting room was empty. I had imagined I'd find my friend hunched over his chemical bench and was surprised when he was not there. Quickly, with Mrs. Southerland's words ringing in my ears, I went to his room and opened the closed door. Much to my chagrin, he was not there. With a heavy heart, I entered my own room and cleaned and put away all of my medical supplies. When I completed my task, I returned to the sitting room and contrary to my usual habits, I poured myself a rather large tumbler of our finest brandy. After lighting a fire in the grate, I settled down with my drink.

Slowly, I tried to make sense of the strange events of the past few hours. In my chair, sitting safely before a blazing fire, our finest brandy burning my throat, my fears slowly began to recede. It was, of course, no secret that I was associated with the consulting detective of Baker Street. Mr. Southerland himself admitted that his daughters were fond of my stories in the Strand. It should not have come as a surprise then, that his name was known to my patient. After all, my friend did have a well known and deserved reputation. He was, to some degree, a household name. And I knew, from my years of experience in both private practice as well as in my tenure in Her Majesty's Army that fevers caused patients to have strange and often terrifying hallucinations and thoughts. It was not so strange then, to have a patient become hostile and belligerent.

When I reflected upon the matter, all seemed as though I could blame her strange behavior on her extremely high fever. And yet, there was something that was troubling me, a cold fear that I could not reason away. I had seen her very face twist into a terrifying creature and heard her voice become cruel. I had never, in all my years as a physician, encountered such a dramatic change in a patient. And I shuddered to think that I had only learned of Holmes' illness this morning. How could she have known?

I rose from my chair and walked over to the sideboard. I poured myself another tumbler of brandy in attempt to eradicate her growling voice and strange prophecy from my ears.

I know not how long I sat before our hearth, my mind working furiously to try and dispel those horrid words from my ears. It was when the level of brandy in our decanter reached an alarmingly low level that I heard the front door open and a tired sounding tread upon our stair. Our sitting room door opened a moment later, and I saw my haggard friend in our doorway.

"My dear fellow," I said, quickly getting to my feet. I ignored the fact the room swayed slightly and hurried over to my friend and grasped his elbow. Slowly, I led him to his chair and frowned when he made no protest to my ministrations. I sighed when I felt heat radiating through the sleeve of his jacket. "Dear Lord man," I said, "you're burning with fever. What the devil have you been doing?" I passed a hand along his forehead and felt that it was hot to the touch.

He stared at me with haunted eyes. Something was troubling him deeply, but he remained reticent as to what. "I've made a great deal of progress," he said. "With Mortimer's help, I have located Square Toes' tobacconist. By the time I reached it, they had closed for the day. We will make a start there tomorrow." He looked into my face and frowned. "And how is the fair Mrs. Southerland? I assume things did not go well for you."

"What makes you say that?"

"You've a bleariness about the eyes Watson," he said tiredly, "that suggests you have been drinking. When you combine that with the current level of our brandy decanter and the deplorable condition of your shirt, the deduction was not a hard one to make."

"Her fever has broken."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. I knew, internally he was remonstrating himself for erring. "Then your drink was in celebration?"

I floundered for a moment, for I did not know how much information to divulge to him. Surely if I told him all he would think me half mad. And yet, I couldn't risk hiding the truth from him.

"Watson," he said with a hint of irritation, "either she is well or she is not. Given the fact you are a physician, and have been treating her for the past several hours, I would think such an answer would be an easy one to provide."

I sighed and resumed my own chair. I took another sip of brandy to fortify myself against his fevered stare. "Her fever has broken," I repeated more to myself then to him, "but there are things which I saw today that I do not have a ready answer for."

He steepled his fingers beneath his nose and looked at me over his fingertips. "Pray be precise as to the details."

After taking a deep breath, I told him all I had witnessed at the Southerland home, sparing no detail. When I had completed my narrative, he stared at me but said nothing. We sat for some moments in complete silence, the only sound the popping wood in the grate.

"What do you make of it?" He asked at length.

"I'm afraid I do not know," I admitted. "I tried to pass it off as delusions brought about by the potential onset of brain fever, but I must confess I have seen nothing like her reaction in all my years of practice."

"And she remembered nothing?"

"She thought she was sleeping. It was the most singular thing Holmes."

"Huh," he muttered. "I would like to speak to her if I am able."

"Absolutely not!" I said with more heat then I had intended.

He raised his eyebrows and waited, rather impatiently, for me to explain myself.

"You are quite ill Holmes, although you've yet to allow me to properly examine you. And although my patient's fever has diminished she is not yet healthy enough for visitors. I do not need either illness compounding because of contamination."

Holmes sighed but said nothing. After a few moments, he stood on less then steady legs and made his way over to his chemical bench. There, he proceeded to examine a beaker filled with a kind of blue liquid. He sat before it and mixed a few more chemicals into it. He then produced a slide from somewhere upon his bench and studied it intensely underneath a microscope. After a time, he switched slides and studied the new one with an equal amount of interest.

"Although I am not completely certain," Holmes said at length. "I believe that the blood on our door is that of an animal."

"How on earth do you know that?"

"I have on this microscope a slide of blood from my finger. If you would care to take a look?"

I rose from my chair and approached his chemical bench. I put my eye to the eyepiece and stared through the powerful lens.

"You observe that?"

I nodded.

He then removed the slide and replaced it with a new one. "That is a sample taken from the blood on our door."

I adjusted the focus on the machine until the cell was clear. Much to my surprise, I did notice a small difference between the two cells. I voiced as much to my friend who merely nodded.

"If only we could discover just what kind of animal Watson," he said when I had stepped away from his microscope. "That would make a world of difference to our investigation." He sighed and then looked at me with a fevered gaze. "Oh, Watson?"

"Yes?"

"If you could find a moment to clean the door, I would be most obliged. The congealing blood is starting to draw some attention and I do not need Lestrade and his band of merry men to come waltzing in here interrupting my investigation."

Although I did not fancy going back into the freezing evening, I knew with his health in such a precarious position, he was not capable of doing so. Without a word I donned my greatcoat and filled a basin with water and soap. After grabbing a sponge from the washroom I hurried out to our front door and proceeded to clean it.

After about an hour of scrubbing I had managed to make the wood almost spotless. Another half hour I had removed the congealed pools of blood from the steps. When I finally finished, my hands were frigid and I could no longer feel my face. I dumped the crimson water in the curb and hurried back to the sitting room to warm myself by the fire.

"Thank you Watson," he said as I removed my greatcoat and hung it on the rack beside the door. "You will be interested to know that the dagger was placed in our door by the same man who broke into Saint Mary's rectory."

"His thumb print?" I asked.

"Ah Watson, you are coming along quite nicely."

I smiled at him and noted that he was paging through a leather bound book. It took me a moment to realize that it was Father O'Brien's journal. "Finding anything of interest?"

He shook his head in the negative. "Not yet," he said with a frown. "But soon, I think. I just need to make a closer read of this."

I squatted before the hearth and stuck my hands out towards the blazing fire. "How are you feeling?"

He ignored my question and continued to read.

"Holmes," I said, "you need rest."

"I need confounded answers!" He growled slamming the book shut.

I raised by eyebrows at such a sudden exclamation. "Holmes?"

"A dagger in our door, a dead woman hanged from her rafter—"

"Please give her more respect then that, I beg you."

"Ah yes I'm sorry Watson."

"What did you learn from her?"

"I learned that she and Father O'Brian shared similar delusions. Both of them were convinced that something was following them. They saw things, they touched things. Ridiculous things."

"Holmes?"

"What?"

"Miss Granger was seriously ill before she died. It was from her the children grew ill as well. I wonder if Father O'Brian was also suffering from some malady? Miss Southerland is quite ill as well and she is convinced—"

"Are you saying the same man who has thrust daggers in my door and broken into the rectory is a man like Culverton Smith who kills with a microbe as opposed to something else?"

Hearing the derision in his voice, I decided not to continue my thought. "I'm not saying such a thing. I'm merely saying it is a remarkable coincidence."

"It is something we can certainly verify with Father Michael in the morning. Perhaps I have overlooked that."

"Now you're ill…" my words tapered off when I saw the violent gaze in his eyes.

"I am fine. Your patient has had a delusion. I am not seriously ill."

Looking at the hectic flush in either cheek and seeing the unnaturally bright shine in his eyes told me otherwise, but I chose not to fight with him. I was too mentally weary.

"Have you any friends who are apothecaries my dear fellow?"

The sudden shift of conversation once again, in my drunken state, surprised me. "Of course. I use a number of them in my profession."

"And I to acquire that habit which you so often remonstrate me for." His grin had no humor behind it.

"Yes."

"Do you know if any of yours are open this evening?"

"It has been my custom to rouse Mr. Cumming at queer hours for sick patients."

"Would you be willing to rouse him tonight?"

"For what purpose?"

"Tetrodotoxin and Datura. I want to see if such a combination can be found here."

"Holmes it quite cold outside and getting rather late. I hardly think, in your condition, it would be beneficial to go traipsing about London searching for a—"

"When you become my master, I will allow you to make those decisions. Until that moment, I will be judge of my own health."

"He is on Bond Street," I said softly. "The hour is half past eight. I'm certain we will find him in his rooms above his shop."

"Well then, what are we waiting for? That game is afoot!"

I grabbed my great coat and watched fretfully as I saw my friend sway on his feet momentarily.

"Are you all right?" I asked, grabbing his arm to steady him.

He did not respond and pulled his arm from my grasp. I followed him down the seventeen stairs to the front door. Much to my chagrin, there were no cabs to be had and we had to walk an easy distance in the bitter cold until we could find them. When we secured ourselves inside the hansom, I frowned when I heard my friend's teeth chattering violently.

"Holmes?"

"Quiet," he said, his voice trembling from an internal cold. "I'm trying to think."

I said nothing as I watched his body shiver uncontrollably.

At last, we arrived at our destination and we paid our driver. I took one look at the old shop and saw the light shining brightly in the sitting room window of Peter Cumming, apothecary. I quickly pulled the bell rope twice before a wizened face appeared in the glass. He looked at me for a moment, lit the gas in his shop and opened the door.

"Doctor Watson, what a surprise," he said pulling my arm inside. "I'm sorry it's not warmer in here," he said when he saw my friend shivering, "but I did close up for the evening. How can I help you?"

I thought of Mrs. Southerland and Holmes. "I need more of my liquid and powder compounds for ever as quickly as possible."

Cumming smiled though yellowed teeth. "Ipecacuanha wine one dram. Syrup two drams. One and one half ounce of water. One packet of spirits of nitre. Six packets of Bicarbonate of potash. Is that correct?"

I nodded, impressed, as always, at his ability to recall exactly what I prescribed without ever consulting paper. "Thank you."

"You'll want your usual twenty five?"

"Yes please."

"I'll be back in but a moment Doctor." The little man said, disappearing into the back of his shop.

"Are you quite finished?" My friend asked sharply.

"Excuse me?"

"We are supposed to be here to conduct an investigation. Not so you can shop for supplies."

"I need them Holmes, and this saves me a trip tomorrow before I go on my rounds."

"Your rounds?"

"Yes Holmes, there are more then Mrs. Southerland who are ill, although none are showing symptoms quite as severe."

He nodded but said nothing. We stood in silence for some moments, the only sounds punctuating it were Mr. Cumming's gentle mutters from the back of his shop and my friend's teeth chattering loudly.

A few moments later, Mr. Cumming appeared holding a leather pouch, which he handed to me. "I put in a few extra. From what I read in the paper, you'll be needing them."

"Thank you kindly," I said removing several pounds from my pocketbook and handing them to him.

"Will there be anything else?"

"Tetrodotoxin and Datura," Holmes said.

"What?"

"What do you know of Tetrodotoxin?"

"Not much," Cumming said. "I've heard of it, but I've no need to handle it."

"Can you tell me about it?"

"It's a strong toxin, from an island somewhere I think. It's not native to London."

"Any idea of where I can get it?"

"I suppose I can acquire it for you, for a price."

"And Datura?"

"Same with that sir. Although why you'd want anything to do with those is beyond me."

"That is no concern of yours," Holmes said a bit more gruffly then he needed to.

"Of course sir."

"What will be the cost of such a acquisition?"

Cumming thought for several moments. "Twenty pounds, I think, is fair."

Holmes removed the bills from his pocket without a moment's thought.

"I'll have them for you in three days time."

"Thank you."

We bid Cumming good evening and stepped out of his shop into the frigid air. We walked several paces when Holmes grabbed my arm suddenly.

"What is it?"

"Watson, I—" Before he could finish his sentence he collapsed onto the ground, clutching his chest.

"Holmes!"


	12. Chapter 12

**I've been inspired to write recently, so I'm guessing that this story will be updated with more regularity, which I'm happy about. As always, please let me know what you think by R&R. Thanks. **

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><p>"Holmes!"<p>

Before I could act, he back thrashing wildly on the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head until I could see nothing but the whites. I knelt down next to him and tried my hardest to restrain his thrashing limbs. "Holmes! Holmes!" Never in my ken had I seen something to terrifying.

"Watson!" The voice was his, but it had a hollow quality to it, the likes of which I have never heard before.

"Holmes, what the devil?"

He stopped thrashing momentarily and proceeded to speak to me, how I had no idea. His eyes were still twitching and I could not see the pupils. "Watson."

I closed my eyes momentarily, trying to place where I had heard the tone before.

"You'd better run Watson," he said fiercely. "The storm is coming, the likes of which you have never seen before."

"Holmes, what are you talking about?"

His hands fisted tightly in my shirt front and he pulled me down with such force I was literally staring into his contorted face. "He's going to be gone."

"Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes!" Suddenly, he began laughing, a high, shrill sound which reverberated in my ears and pierced my skull. "He'll be gone in a short while. Mark my words. Then the storm will come."

"Holmes! Holmes!" I shook him fiercely.

Suddenly, his chest convulsed and his upper torso lifted off the ground. Before I could stop him, he slammed against the cobbles, his head cracking quite hard against the stones. He was then deathly still. My pulse roared in my ears and the utter stillness of the night fell on me heavily.

I slowly moved off my friend and lifted his eyelids. His eyes were rolled back in his head but were no longer twitching. I grabbed his wrist and checked his pulse. It was elevated but was not dangerous. I put my ear against his chest and heard him breathing, steadily but shallowly. I lifted his head and to my chagrin felt the back was wet with blood.

"Holmes," I said, slapping his face gently. "Holmes old man, wake up."

When he did not stir, I gently lifted him from the cold cobbles and hurried back to Cumming's shop. I fiercely rang the bell until he arrived at the door. "Let me in please!" I shouted through the glass.

Cumming opened the door and frowned when he saw Holmes lying in my arms. "Doctor?"

"I need brandy and smelling salts, quick man, quick!"

Cumming disappeared from view and returned a few moments later with what I required. I quickly put the salts beneath Holmes's nose and tipped brandy between his lips. In a moment he was coughing reflectively. His eyes slowly opened but did not immediately focus.

"What the—"

"Hush, and don't move. You've had quite a fall." I couldn't help the fact my voice and hands shook violently. "Stay as still as possible. I need to fully examine you."

"Watson?" There was terror in his voice as he gripped my arms tightly. "Watson?"

"It's me. I'm right here. Hush now."

"What happened?" He asked, his voice trembling violently.

I didn't quite know what to say. Instead, I turned to Cumming. "Do you have a blanket? He's freezing."

"Let me help you lift him. We'll bring him up to my rooms in front of the fire."

I nodded. "Holmes, we're going to pick you up."

He didn't respond and I feared he was once again drifting into unconsciousness. Carefully, I lifted his upper body and Cumming his lower. We carefully carried him up the stairs and put him gently on the floor in front of a blazing fire. Cumming hurried to the other room and returned with a pillow and blankets. We carefully put the pillow under my friend's head and covered him with a blanket. When he was more or less comfortable, I leaned over him. "Holmes?" When he did not respond, I put the smelling salts back under his nose. In a moment, his eyes opened slowly. "There now, easy does it."

He looked at me when I spoke, his eyes not focusing.

"Holmes, are you all right?"

"Watson?"

"Yes old boy. It's me. Are you all right?"

"Where am I?"

"We're in Mr. Cumming's flat. You've had a terrible fall. Do you not remember?"

"What?"

"Here, let me lift your head for a moment."

I carefully raised his head and frowned when I felt it wet with blood. I moved aside his hair and saw a large gash where he had cut it against the stones. I also feared he had a concussion. I turned to Cumming. "Do you have any thread and a needle? He needs stitches."

"Yes," he replied. "I'll fetch it."

"Watson, what happened?"

"Not right now," I said terrified he didn't recall anything. "I need to give you some brandy. You've a cut that requires stiches."

"But—"

"Hush now. All will be well." I poured him a tumbler of brandy which I helped him to drink.

Ordinarily, he would have refused any kind of medical intervention and the fact he did not alarmed me greatly. Before I could think further on his lack of response, Cumming returned with supplies for me, including hot water and linens. I gently took a cloth and washed the back of his head, pulling the cloth away stained with blood.

"Holmes?"

When he didn't respond, I looked down and saw he had once again drifted into unconsciousness. Without a word to Cumming, I set about stitching my dearest friend. When I finished, I washed my hands and him.

"Is he all right?" Cumming asked after a few moments of silence.

I shrugged my shoulders not knowing what else to say.

"You can spend the night here Doctor," he said quietly.

As much as I wanted to, I could not. The new strains of influenza ravaged the city, and I had too many patients whose very lives depended on my prompt action if it came to that. It was already alarming being away from Baker Street for the length of time we were. And yet, I had no comprehension of what malady affected my friend who was, as always, my first and foremost concern. The thought of leaving Holmes here entered my mind but I briefly brushed it aside. I could not, in good conscious, leave him under anyone's care but my own.

Without saying anything further, I took the smelling salts and once again put them under my friend's nose. Very slowly, he opened his eyes which were, to my infinite joy, much clearer then before. "Holmes, thank God."

He blinked several times without speaking and stared at me, his eyes wide with confusion. "Watson?"

"How're you feeling?"

"I don't know," he answered. His voice, although sounding weak was his own and did not have the hollow quality it had earlier.

I waited a few moments for him to collect his thoughts.

"What happened? I don't remember anything?"

"Do you remember coming to Mr. Cumming's shop?"

He nodded and instantly regretted the action. "Bloody hell!"

"I had to stitch you. You cut your head when you fell."

"I didn't fall. I would have remembered that."

"What do you remember Holmes?"

"We left the shop with an agreement with Mr. Cumming to procure Tetrodotoxin and Datura."

"And nothing after?"

"No."

I very gently told him everything that happened. When I concluded, he looked at me as though I had gone mad.

"I fear this investigation is getting to you old man. You're confusing me with Mrs. Southerland."

"I swear to you I'm not."

"You must be. I haven't said anything of the sort." The belligerence in his tone stopped me from saying anything further. "That goes against every logical faculty."

"Holmes I—"

"I'll not listen to any more of this ridiculousness Watson." His voice was higher pitched then normal and from my soldier's instinct, I could tell it was tinged with fear. "You simply imagined it. That is the only possible solution."

"All right," I said keeping my voice pitched low. "As you say. However, when we get back to Baker Street, I will examine you properly. You appear to have a dangerously high fever."

"When we get back to Baker Street," he countered, "I have a journal I must go through and chemical analysis I must make. I will not subject myself to your nonsensical medical examination." To emphasize his point, he stood up quickly, and swayed unsteadily on his feet.

I reached out a hand to steady him, which he pushed away. He grabbed his coat and threw it on, tightening it around him. He pushed past both me and Cumming and started down the stairs leaving me to follow.

"Doctor Watson, is he—"

"I don't know," I admitted to Cumming. "I must go after him. Thank you."

"If you run low on supplies, just sent a telegram. I'll make them up for you."

I nodded in thanks and rushed down the stairs and into the frigid air in search of my friend. I saw him, leaning heavily against the side of the building, his head down, sunk upon his breast. His breathing, even from the short distance I was from him, looked extremely labored. I cautiously approached. "Holmes?"

He didn't hear me right away and continued to stare at the cobblestone.

"Holmes?" I asked again. I gently touched his shoulder, causing him to jump.

"What Watson?" He asked hotly.

"I was simply going to ask if—"

"I don't want you asking anything. I want to get back to Baker Street and continue my work."

"Let us find a hansom then."

We walked silently down the street. I allowed my friend to walk slightly ahead in case he collapsed again I would be able to catch him. After a few moments, we found a hansom and bundled up inside it. The ride back to our rooms was tensely quiet and when we exited the cab, I took a deep breath, glad to be out of the tense, close environment.

We walked up the stairs in silence and entered our rooms. Holmes immediately threw off his coat and sat in his chair, picking up Father O'Brien's journal. Just as I was divesting myself of my great coat, the door bell sounded.

"I'll get it," I said, fully aware that my friend would not answer.

I walked down the seventeen steps and opened the door only to find a telegram boy standing there.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Doctor Watson sir?"

"Yes."

"This 'ere's for you."

I took the envelope and tipped the boy. I shuddered when I read the contents. Come at once. Stop. She's fallen deathly ill. Stop. Please hurry. Stop. J. Southerland.

I shivered in spite of the cold which I stopped feeling. I knew I had to go at once to my patient, it was my sworn duty as a physician. However, I was terrified to leave my friend alone for any length of time.

With a heavy heart, I plodded up the stairs and reentered the sitting room.

"Judging from your tread, I can deduce the news you received is not welcomed."

"No, it's not."

"It's from a patient?"

"Mrs. Southerland."

At her name, my friend's ears perked up. "Oh?"

"I must go to her at once."

"Then I shall join you!" He fairly leapt to his feet and immediately started bundling into his coat.

"That won't be necessary. I need to see her in a professional capacity."

"As," he said with a sly grin, "do I. Come Watson, I know you do not fancy leaving me to my own devices. This is the perfect way to keep an eye on me while doing your work."

"She will not be in the condition to be questioned."

"There is much I can learn from her without asking a word."

Knowing it was useless to argue, I pulled my coat on. "Come along then."


	13. Chapter 13

**Thanks to everyone who has stopped by to read my story and to those who have kindly reviewed. This chapter is a bit different then some of them, in terms of style. Hope you enjoy and please, as always, R&R let me know what you think.**

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><p>We hailed a hansom and rode in silence to the Southerland house. When we alighted I grabbed my friend roughly by the shoulder. "You will do nothing to upset her, do you understand?"<p>

He raised his eyebrows at my tone. "Of course _Doctor_." He made my title sound ridiculous in only a way he could.

Without another word, I pulled the rope and waited. A moment later, the door was thrown open not by the Southerland girl but by Mr. Southerland himself. "Doctor Watson! So good of you to come."

"Of course. Quickly, we must not waste time."

We stepped inside, Holmes behind both of us and began walking to the sickroom.

"What has happened?"

"She has been screaming uncontrollably for the past two hours Doctor. No one can go near her."

As if on cue, the most bloodcurdling scream filled the house causing me to jump. "Quickly then."

Without another word, I pushed past Mr. Southerland and hurried into the sickroom. The sight that lay before me was horrifying in the extreme, and I steeled myself before I could begin. Lying on her side, her face painfully white, was Mrs. Southerland. She was rocking back and forth, screaming uncontrollably.

"Mrs. Southerland. Mrs. Southerland, can you hear me?"

She did not indicate that she heard me. She continued to scream, her throat sounding raw.

"It's Doctor Watson," I ensured my voice was kept low and soft. I walked slowly towards her, catching her eyes with mine and not once allowing that contact to waver. As I approached her, she hissed violently.

"Stay back! Stay back I say!"

"Mrs. Southerland, you are not yourself. You are very ill. You must let me examine you."

"What can a vapid, meddling cripple do for me?"

I took a deep breath and held it for a moment. From years of active practice I knew better then to let the insults of patients affect me, but they still stung nevertheless. "I can do a lot for you, if you will give me the chance." I continued to approach. "You've a fever Mrs. Southerland. I've seen it many times over the course of the days."

Suddenly she spat at me, hitting me full in the face. "Stay back demon!"

"Violet!" Mr. Southerland ejaculated.

"It's all right sir. No harm done." I wiped my face with my handkerchief and finally reached the bed.

I carefully set my bag down at my feet and stared at my patient. Her eyes were bright with fever and there was a hectic flush on her cheeks. She was so pale her skin appeared to be translucent and there were great black circles beneath her eyes. "Mrs. Southerland?"

I leaned towards her when suddenly her hand lashed out and grabbed my face, putting deep nail marks into my cheek. I grabbed her hand before she could do any more damage. "Mrs. Southerland this shows me how overcome with fever you are."

My cheek was bleeding quite badly but I did not have time to tend to it. "Mrs. Southerland you must listen to me. I'm here to help you, not to hurt you."

"You're going to kill me like you killed my daughters."

Her words stung worse then I wanted to admit and I instantly dropped her hand. I closed my eyes against the waves of guilt that washed over me suddenly.

"You remember how you killed them Doctor Watson?" Her voice was both shrill and hollow at the same time. "Do you remember their cries of agony as you sat beside them doing nothing?"

It seemed as though she was reading my innermost thoughts.

"All you wanted to do was leave and get back to your precious detective. You didn't care that my daughters were dying. Your lack of skills killed them."

"That is enough," I said firmly. "I will hear no more of that talk."

"You will hear as much talk as I want to say Doctor Watson. The famous doctor who couldn't save two children when they begged him to. That doctor who couldn't save Miss Granger from hanging herself. That same Doctor Watson that is standing by helpless as his closest friend dies before his eyes."

I found it strange that she knew of the fate that befell her former governess, but I theorized her husband must have told her. Taking a deep breath I restrained her flailing hands with one of mine and took her pulse. It was severely elevated to a dangerous level. I touched her skin and felt it fairly radiating with heat. I knew I had to do something quickly.

I opened my bag and quickly filled a syringe with the mixture that Mr. Cumming had mixed for me. Once again grabbing her hands, I injected the solution into her veins. I let go and waited for the medication to take effect.

"You're dying," Mrs. Southerland said, looking past me and locking eyes with Sherlock Holmes. "And I'm killing you slowly. You felt a bit of my power tonight outside of the apothecary. Do you remember it? Do you remember me taking over your brain? Do you remember anything that happened a little over an hour ago?"

I heard my friend gasp in surprise and I knew if I were to look at him, his face would have been gravely pale.

"You are ill Mrs. Southerland," I said. "You do not know about what you speak."

"Oh I do Doctor Watson. I know all. I know you killed your wife."

"There now!" I exploded. "That is enough!"

"Oh enough is it? Is that your sensitive point Doctor Watson? Your wife who you killed because of your incompetency? What was her name? Mary is it? Mary Watson?"

"Your knowledge does not impress me Mrs. Southerland. You know I had a wife from my accounts in the Strand. You know she died from the same source. It is not difficult to infer how she died."

"Then can I infer how you wept at her bedside like a small child? How you begged her on your knees not to die? How you broke a vase because you knew it was all your fault because you couldn't see the symptoms sooner? How you begged her forgiveness for your inability to save her?"

"That is enough."

"How she didn't give you that forgiveness because she died before she could utter it?"

"That is enough!"

"How you still live with the guilt? How it still eats at you day by day? How you can barely wake up in the morning because it's all you can think about? How you almost thought about taking your friend's cocaine to—"

"Enough!" I thundered so loudly it caused both of the men in the room to jump. Mrs. Southerland too, seemed to respond to my anger.

"Sherlock Holmes will die. I will see to it."

"I do not feel like dying today madam," Holmes said suavely from the other side of the room.

"You don't have a choice in the matter Mr. Holmes. In fact, I see quite the reverse. Did you like the power I had over you this evening?"

My friend refused to answer. His silence was a strong indictor that his mind was running against itself trying to make sense of the words being spoken.

I once again rummaged in my bag for a syringe and a sedative. Battling her raging arms and screaming insults I injected the sedative into her. In a few moments, her eyes grew heavy and she drifted off to sleep. I mixed powder in a glass of water with less then steady hands and set it next to her bed.

"When she wakes," I said shakily, "I will give her this. I will not leave this room until her fever has broken."

James Southerland looked at me and dropped hand on my shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Mary was first and foremost on my thoughts and I simply nodded. Being faced with my own folly, I was forced to relive that terrible ordeal in her sickroom in the not so distant past. The wounds I had hastily stitched shut were now raw and bleeding. So too, was my guilt of not saving the Southerland girls.

"You did all you could for our daughters. We both know that."

"It wasn't enough. I know it wasn't enough. I should have sent round for Aaron Anistruther or Edward Brett two specialists. If I wouldn't have been so sure of my own abilities, if I only thought—"

"You are our doctor and we were content calling upon you. If we wanted a specialist we would have called one ourselves. We trust you Doctor Watson, and we still do. Please, don't give up on my wife. You did not give up on my children."

I nodded but said nothing.

"Your cheek."

I touched it and found my fingers stained with blood. I quickly went into my bag and found gauze and bandages. I bandaged the wound as best I could with military timing. "That is one thing easily dealt with." I smiled grimly.

I looked past Mr. Southerland and spied my friend trembling against the wall. His face was alarmingly pale and his eyes looked frightened and haunted. "Mr. Southerland, would it be possible to fetch me some brandy?"

"Of course." He quickly left giving me some time alone with my dearest friend.

"Holmes?"

"How did she know?" He rasped. "How did she know about Cumming? How did she know?"

"Perhaps she heard us talking outside?"

"We didn't." If possible, he grew paler and hugged himself more tightly.

"Gossip spreads quickly my dear fellow," was the meager excuse I gave him. It was the only thing that came to my mind.

"It would not travel into a sickroom."

"Don't worry about that now."

"It is illogical. There must be some rational reason behind this." Although he sounded certain, the fear in his eyes betrayed him.

"You're not going to die," I offered.

"No, not tonight."

We both lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, which was only broken by the ragged breathing of my patient. Mr. Southerland came in a few moments later with brandy that we all drank readily. When he put the decanter down, the long bedside vigil began. I know not how much time passed between when we finished the last of our brandy and Mrs. Southerland waking, but I know I saw the first light of the morning breaking through the glass window, bathing everything in a gentle red and orange glow.

A groan from the bed indicated my patient was stirring. Slowly and carefully, I made my way over to her.

"Mrs. Southerland?"

Her eyes fluttered open a few seconds later. "Doctor Watson?"

"Yes dear girl, it's me. How are you feeling?"

"Exhausted," she admitted.

"I'm hardly surprised, you've had quite a night."

"I did?"

"Yes, do you not remember any of it?"

Slowly she shook her head. "I just remember you leaving earlier." I was alarmed that she was missing several hours. "What happened to your face?"

"You were delirious and scratched me."

"Dear Lord! I am so sorry."

"It's all right, no harm done. May I examine you?"

She nodded in assent and I set about my examination. Although weak, she showed no lingering signs of fever. A temperature reading confirmed my diagnosis. I passed the glass of water to her and instructed her to drink.

"It's bitter," she said.

"It'll help your fever stay down. You must take one of these packets mixed with water every four hours. Do you think you can do that?" I looked from her to her husband.

"Yes," they responded in unison.

"Very good. I will be back in a couple of hours to check on you. If you need something before then, your husband can telegram me and I will be back immediately."

"Thank you Doctor Watson," she said, grasping my hand tightly. "Thank you for all you do."

I smiled and had to blink back the tears that were forming in my eyes. _Sometimes what you do is not enough_ a strange voice said in the back of my mind. I shook my head gently to quiet it.

Mr. Southerland saw Holmes and I out, bidding us thanks and a good day. We walked some distance in silence, both wrapped up in our own thoughts. It was Holmes who broke the silence.

"Are you all right Watson?"

"Yes I'm fine."

"What she said—"

"Were delirious things said by a woman with a high fever. They were nothing more."

"They upset you."

"Of course they did! I don't like to hear of my failures to save those I treat and those I love. It is physically painful Holmes although I sincerely doubt you can relate to a thing I'm saying." I do not know why I lashed out at him in such a vicious fashion. "I'm sorry," I said after a moment. "I don't know what came over me."

"It's all right Watson. But you and I must part company I'm afraid."

"Whatever for?"

"You need sleep and I need to examine a few leads."

"I don't want to leave you alone Holmes."

"I insist, and it is an order."

Knowing I could not disobey him, I hailed a hansom and returned to Baker Street. I dropped my bag and coat near the door and collapsed on the settee. Within moments, I fell into a deep five-fathom sleep.

I was awakened some time later by a horrific nightmare that I could barely recall. It involved phantom shadows and howling men. I sat bolt upright and mentally took note of my surroundings. I was safe in our Baker Street sitting room, alone. My thoughts began to returned to the events of the previous evening and I shuddered to recall them. I could only hope that my friend, wherever he was, was safe.

I rose on less then steady legs and proceeded to complete my toilet. When I was dressed in fresh clothing and shaven, I felt slightly better. I went about my morning tasks of refilling my medical bag and writing down several notes from the previous days in my patient log. I made notes of who I had to see, Mrs. Southerland being the last of my patients for the day and readied myself to go out into the cold.

As I was donning my great coat, my eyes fell upon the dagger on Holmes's desk and the journal standing open beside it. I cautiously lifted the dagger and examined it closely. Then it hit me. The hilt was elaborately jeweled, like something one would find in Persia, and yet the blade was a modified bayonet. I had seen these weapons in their deadliest form more often then I wanted to during my time in Afghanistan. The hilt, I was certain, was Persian in origin.

I picked up the journal and began paging through it once again, this time looking for some vague explanation for the strange behavior of my friend and my patient. The more I paged through it, the more I thought the man suffered from some strange medical affliction which started attacking his brain. There was no other option until my eyes fell on a passage that sent my blood chillingly cold.

Through the scribbles, I found a moment of clarity. There was a man, by the name of Jack who had experienced a similar happening to that of my friend and patient. Father O'Brian had witnessed and attempted to aid this man. "No matter what I tried," the priest wrote, "Satan's hand was on him strong. I need to delve into those dark recesses of my soul to save him. God grant me the strength to do so."

If I had any hope of saving my friend, I needed to find this man. I hurriedly called our boy to take a telegram to Doctor Coruthers, who sometimes took over my practice when I was called away asking him to look after my patients except for Mrs. Southerland. Her I would see myself. When that was complete, I grabbed my greatcoat and medical bag and rushed out of the door and down the seventeen steps into the frigid air. I did not know where I was supposed to go, my detective sense is not nearly as keen as that of my friend, but I knew I had to act. After stopping for a moment to consider, I decided Saint Mary's was my best course of action.


	14. Chapter 14

**Hope everyone had a great three day weekend. I was writing. Please let me know you think by reading and reviewing. **

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><p>When I arrived at the rectory, I was chagrined to find it strangely empty. It was half past eight in the morning, and I had forgotten that the priests, too, had duties. I decided to enter the church and see if I could find one of the fathers there. Much to my surprise, the church was full of people and I could just spy Father Michael conducting the Mass. I found a spot in the back and waited for the service to be over.<p>

It had been some time since I was in a place of religious worship—the last time was the funeral of my late wife. I was saddened in the building, remembering that sorrowful day but something in the musical swells of the service made my heart, despite its grief, seem to somewhat lighten. While I didn't actively listen to Father Michael's words, I found their tone oddly soothing.

When mass was over, the people shuffled out, but I waited until the church was clear. In a few moments, Father Michaels entered. "Doctor Watson, I thought I spied you with my flock. Looking for a bit of God's grace?"

I smiled at the priest. "I need some help actually."

"Come to the rectory. You look as though you are going to collapse."

"It was a sleepless night I'm afraid."

"Let's get you some tea and in front of a roaring fire. We can then discuss anything."

I followed the priest out of the church where he greeted and spoke to a few of his lingering flock, introducing me as his 'dear friend Dr. Watson.' After several moments of this, we made our way back to the rectory where he sat me down on the settee in front of a blazing fire, something I had neglected to light for myself the night before. I didn't realize how frigid I was until I felt the fire's warmth seep into my bones.

"Much better," Father Michaels said. "May I take your coat Doctor?"

"I'd rather leave it on," I said, feeling the bitter chill in the room.

"May I get you some tea? And perhaps a scone?"

My stomach grumbled on cue. "Yes please."

Father Michaels disappeared into the kitchen and a few moments later, returned carrying two cups of piping hot tea and an assortment of scones. "Please," he said indicating the tray, "help yourself."

We ate for a few moments in silence, something I hadn't done in well over a day. When the pastries were almost finished, Father Michaels leaned back in his chair and looked at me with a sad smile. "How may I be of service Doctor Watson?"

"I don't know if you will," I admitted. "But I didn't know who else to turn to. Do you know anyone by the name of Jack?"

Father Michaels raised his eyes. "I'm afraid Doctor, I have many parishioners of with that name. Can you be a bit more specific?"

"I'm afraid not. I just know of him from Father O'Brien's journal."

"What do you know?"

"I'm afraid my tale is a bit fanciful and I can't be sure I haven't imagined it."

"I have heard numerous confessions over the years Doctor Watson. I'm certain yours will not alarm me."

I took a deep breath and began to tell him everything that transpired over the past four and twenty hours. He sat in silence, never saying a word until I finished. When I had, he looked at me for a moment and then made the sign of the cross.

"Your very soul is in danger Doctor Watson," he said softly.

"Confound my soul!" I yelled. I had come to him seeking answers, not spiritual wisdom. "My friend's life is in danger! My patient's life is in danger! Do you honestly think I care about my soul?"

Father Michaels did not get angry with me. Instead, he favored me with a sad smile. "My son, without your soul there can be no life. You must remember that if you are to keep on this insane course of action. If you jeopardize your soul, there will be no helping your friend or your patient."

"What does that mean?"

"There are things Doctor that are difficult to discuss within our religion, because they are controversial in the extreme. Father O'Brien, while a good priest and a righteous priest, takes liberties that other members of our order do not. While I do not approve of these actions, he is responsible and I have never told him to stop. Perhaps I should have."

"What do you mean Father?"

"I remember this Jack," he said after taking a deep breath. "I remember Jack very well. He was a good lad, solid lad. A hard worker, like his father."

"His father?"

"Mason, our ground's keeper."

"I didn't think he had—"

"He doesn't speak of Jack and I don't recommend you going to ask him. It is a very difficult topic to begin to speak about, so it is best that we do not. But Jack's favorite priest was Father O'Brien, who took him under his wing so to speak. Father O'Brien took it upon himself to teach Jack all about Catholicism, got him to become an alter boy and hoped, I think, that young Jack would go into the priesthood. We all had that hope, Mason included.

'Jack and Father O'Brien spent many afternoons together, and Father O'Brien was Jack's confessor. One day, Father O'Brien came away from an outing with Jack feeling troubled. I inquired into Father O'Brien's state and he replied it was a confession he was mulling over. I did the appropriate thing by reminding him if the confession seemed ominous in any way, or was criminal in any way, it had to be reported to Scotland Yard. Father O'Brien knew this and assured me it was neither. It was just, in his own words, 'unsettling.'

'What could I do Doctor, but let the matter drop? Some days later, a similar thing occurred. I deduced it had something to do with young Jack and questioned my friend more intensely. Yet he would always refuse my desire to converse.

'One evening, it was quite late, around nine o'clock, and Father O'Brien came into my room begging to speak to me. When he entered, he immediately began talking of Satan and his demons on Earth and how he was prowling for souls. It was frenzied talk to be sure and I couldn't do anything to calm him down. Once his tirade ended, he looked at me, eyes wide, and told me it was my sworn duty to save Jack from a terrible demonic force.

'I thought he was out of his senses. The advent, Doctor Watson, of psychiatry, has helped us to classify some of those demonic possessions we encounter. I am not a medical man sir, but I do read the _Lancet_ on occasion and read the latest medical breakthroughs. It is good, as a priest to know what is out there. I pushed Father O'Brien for details but he was reluctant to give them."

"What did you do next?"

"I saw Jack and asked him quite plainly what was going on. He told me Father O'Brien told him he was being possessed by a demon. Can you imagine such talk from one of my own priests? Telling a parishioner that he was being possessed? I do not know what you know of our religion Doctor, but possession is not a topic that is to be taken lightly. You do not accuse someone of demonic possession.

'When I pressed young Jack about why Father O'Brien would say such a thing, I he started telling me the most bizarre things Doctor."

"Can you tell me what they were?"

"He started seeing things that weren't there, shadows of some sort. He would miss hours of his day. Not remember things that were happening—"

"What happened to him?" I asked with much trepidation.

"I recommended that he see a physician and not Father O'Brien. Father O'Brien, after all, is not equipped to deal with a medical or worse a psychiatric problem. He could do the boy more harm then good, am I correct Doctor?"

I nodded but didn't have the voice to speak further. Something about this priest's account sounded dangerously like what we were experiencing. "What happened to Jack?"

Father O'Brien wrung his hands together and crossed himself. "One evening, he went with Father O'Brien into the graveyard. He never returned."

"But Father O'Brien did?"

"Yes."

"Did he say anything?"

"He didn't speak for several days, not matter what I tried to do. He was pale and trembled often. It was quite unlike him. When I suggested he see a physician, he lunged at me and yelled that a physician would not help. Now, he too, is gone."

"How far apart did—"

"About a month, a bit more or less."

"Did you alert the authorities about Jack?"

"And say what Doctor? That my priest was with him and then he went missing? To have the entire rectory turned upside down and we examined like mere criminals?" He paused and took a breath. "That was my intention, despite the cost to our lives. It was Mason who told us not to. He too, valued the life we live here and did not want to see it interrupted in such a fashion."

"But his own son? Surely—"

"Jack had some unsavory friends," Father Michaels said with a frown. "They would come back the rectory sometime and talk with Father O'Brien. He was their priest They were a rag tag crew I'm not ashamed to admit, sailors and drunkards. But who am I, as a man of Christ, to judge others? I left my door open to them as I do to anyone. Mason seemed to think Jack ran off with one of the boys out to see. Mason still believes Jack will return when the sea has gone from his system and he once again longs for dry, solid land."

"And you do not think so?"

It took Father Michaels several moments to formulate an answer. "I think the reason for Jack's disappearance lies in the heart of Father O'Brien. But until he returns…"

"Do you know any of Jack's friends by name?"

"I only know one and that is because he has done work for me here in the rectory. Ebenezer is his first name, his last name is Josephs or Johnson or something of the sort."

"Do you know where I might find him?"

"He is from Whitechaple or the area surrounding. I don't know, anything, I'm afraid about him. He is good with his hands though when he isn't drinking. Skilled carpenter."

Bolstered with this new knowledge, I thanked father Michaels profusely for his time.

"Doctor Watson?" He asked before I could leave.

"Yes?"

"I do not know how much of the devil played in the hand in any of this. And I find it singular that your friend has been plagued by these strange experiences after your discovery in our basement—"

"That is merely a coincidence," I said hotly. "There is a medical reason behind his illness and there is a medical reason behind Jack's. I just need to figure out what it is to treat it."

"Yes," Father Michaels said with a sad smile. "That is what I thought too."

The tone of his voice sent shivers down my spine. "And now?"

He paused. "I think there is some other power at work that we are unsure how to fight."

I had to leave and quickly. "Thank you for all your help Father."

"God bless you Doctor Watson."

I hurried from the rectory and stumbled into the cold morning air, my thoughts reeling. I knew, if I was to save my friend, I had to find this Ebenezer Johnson or Josephs and speak to him. I needed to know more about Jack and how he tied in to our problem at hand.

I walked briskly for several blocks, my mind churning over Father Michaels' strange tale. My mind, no matter how much it wanted to, could not shake this term of Satan's hand. I thought back to the odd skull we found and the odd chanting we had heard in the graveyard. I thought hard on the odd calling card and threat, the strange deaths of the girls and Ms. Granger, the odd behavior of my friend and Mrs. Southerland. If Father Michaels was correct—I didn't let myself dwell on such a thought. Demonic possessions had no place in a rational mind. They did not exist and could not exist. As a man of science, I could not afford to believe in them. _And yet_, a strange, cold voice said in the back of my mind, _and yet. _

I stopped further musings when I found a hansom and hurried off into Whitechaple, knowing finding such a man in such an area would be next to impossible. Still, the old campaigner in me knew I had to at least try.

My hansom dropped me at the outskirts of the area and my ears and eyes were immediately assaulted with the various sights and sounds of London's East End. I was not unfamiliar with such an area, indeed my practice had taken me into the very heart of it on many dark night, but the stark difference in lifestyle between the East and West ends always gave me pause. I started walking, doing my best to ignore the prostitutes and pimps that approached me, not very sure what I was looking for. I knew he drank, but I didn't know which pub and I did not have time to investigate all of them since I still had Mrs. Southerland to attend to.

I walked into the first one I saw and asked around, I was met with negatives. This was the same for most of the ones I entered. I walked through the filthy streets for well over three hours, feeling more and more discouraged. My hunt was proving to be useless and my trail was running cold. As I walked, I silently berated myself for abandoning my patients for such a flight of fancy. I knew tomorrow I would not allow any siren call to wrest me from their side.

It began to rain heavily, making my mood even glummer. When the first boom of thunder crackled through the sky, I hurried into the first building I could find, which was an opium den by the name of Banished Immortal. Inside the ornately colored room, I shook myself dry.

"Good day sir," a voice said behind me.

I turned and saw the proprietor standing behind me, offering me a pipe. "No thank you," I said. "I'm just standing in from the rain."

"I see."

A thought struck me. "Do you know an Ebenezer Josephs or Johnson?"

The thought for a moment. "I do know an Ebenezer. He is a regular client of mine."

"Do you know where I can reach him?" I did not know whether this was the man I sought or if it was another dead end. But I had to try.

"He usually comes in around five o'clock. What do you want with him?"

"I need to speak with him on an urgent matter." I looked into the stern brown eyes of the man standing in front of me. "I'll pay you for the introduction. Twenty pounds," I said without even thinking of the cost. "That should be a nice sum for you."

He considered my offer. "Money first."

I reached into my pocket book and handed him the bills. "Here you are."

"You can wait over there, on one of the beds. When he come in, I will introduce you."

"Thank you." I carefully made my way past the bodies passed out on the floor, their opium pipes hanging limply from their hands. I know not how long I stood there, for it was far too dark to consult my watch. After what seemed like well over an hour, my host approached me with another man.

"This is Ebenezer."

I looked at the large man in front of me and wondered whether it was the man I was searching for. "Thank you," I said to my host. When the owner left us, we stared at each other.

"'Ere now," he said, his accent thick and slurring.

"Are you Ebenezer Johnson?"

"'oo wants t'know?'

"My name," I said extending my hand, "is John Watson."

He looked at my outstretched hand but did not take it.

"I need to speak to you about something urgent."

His silence was impassive as he stared at me. His eyes were wide and the pupils small, a sheen of sweat was on his brow; he was in need of his opium fix and I was preventing him from getting it.

"I need to know about Jack."

"Common name," he said.

"Yes," I agreed. It was the first time in my adventure that I wished Holmes was with me. I had no doubt that my friend would have been able to extract a great deal of information from the man standing in front of me. "Jack Mason?"

At the mention of the name, Ebenezer's eyes grew wide. "'Oo are you t'be askin' 'bout Jackie?"

"A friend of his father's."

"No. 'Is father don't want t'know nothin' 'bout 'im."

"That's not true. He is wondering where he is. Do you know?"

"What're you, some kind o'detec'ive?"

"A friend and nothing more."

"If you want t'know 'bout Jack, I su'gest you talk wif that priest 'e always 'ung around wif."

"Father O'Brien?"

"Aye gov, that's the man."

"Did you know him?"

"Know 'im? We all know 'im. 'E'd come down 'ere wif us some nights."

"Doing what?"

"'E 'ad all kinds of ideas in 'is 'ead. 'E share 'em wif us over a pint."

"What kind of ideas?"

"'E was a funny one. 'E was always on Jackie 'bout 'is religion. Always wanted 'im to be a priest an' fight evil."

"Evil?"

"Aye, 'e 'ad some ideas in 'is craw. Convinced Satan was after 'im an' Jackie for something they'd done."

"Do you know what?"

The man shook his head in the negative. "No. Somethin' in the graveyard. All I know. They 'ung out there of'n enough. Always gave me the creeps, it did."

"You went with them?"

"Aye once or twice. They'd spend 'ours there, doin' strange things. 'E was convinced there was somfin wrong wif Jackie, but never said what. Then Jackie was gone."

"What do you mean gone?"

"We 'ad a pint in a tavern in Buck's Row, me an' Jackie. Jack started gettin' these strange ideas. Started thinkin' there was somethin' after 'im. Started believing shadows and things were out to get 'im. Started tellin' me 'e was gonna die. Started scarin' me 'e did. Sayin' odd things, tellin' me these bizarre tales about dead people comin' back to life."

"What?"

"'E went off 'is rocker 'e did. Kept talkin' 'bout this man in black robes wif blazin' eyes. All kinds of nonsense. When I thought 'e'd been affected by the spirits, 'e got up crazily an' 'urried out without me. I never saw 'im again."

"Can you describe this man in black robes?"

The man shook his head in the negative.

Knowing there was nothing else to learn, I thanked the man for his time and left Banished Immortal. I stepped into the pouring rain and hurried to find a cab, my mind reeling in fear. When I found one, I gave him the Southerland address and hurried along to see my patient.


	15. Chapter 15

**Sorry for the delay in updating. The start of the school year and a terrible bout with illness has kept me from updating. I'm back on my feet and I give you the latest installment. Please, as always R&R and let me know what you think. Enjoy! **

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><p>Much to my infinite delight, Mrs. Southerland was much improved from when I had seen her last. Her fever seemed to be all but gone and her eyes had some of their usual twinkle back.<p>

"It is good to see you looking so well Mrs. Southerland," I said with a broad smile.

"Thank you Doctor Watson."

"If I may examine you to ensure there is no fever?"

She nodded in assent and I gave her a very quick examination.

"You're on the mend Mrs. Southerland," I said. I packed my medical bag. "Bed rest for at least two more days and I shall return to see how you are faring."

"Thank you Doctor."

I squeezed her shoulder then exited the sickroom.

"If you need me at any hour," I said to Mr. Southerland, "jus send me a telegram and I shall instantly return. However, I think she is quite out of the woods."

He pumped my hand warmly. "It is good to hear you say that."

I took my leave of the Southerland home and decided, despite what Father Michaels said, it was important to speak with Mr. Mason. I hailed a hansom and once again found myself heading to the rectory. When I arrived, I did not go into the priests' home but instead made my way into the cemetery. I found Mason some distance away, digging a grave.

"Mr. Mason?"

He stood on his shovel and looked at me. "Doctor Watson?"

"Hello sir," I said approaching him.

"'Ow can I 'elp you?"

"I'd like to speak with you if I may sir."

"I gotta finish this 'ere grave first sir. Funeral's tomorrow."

I picked up a shovel from his pile of tools, stripped out of my greatcoat, down to my shirtsleeves, and set down my medical bag. "If I help you, may we talk?"

"Wot do you know o'diggin' graves Doctor?"

"I am a solider Mr. Mason and a surgeon. I've dug many in the deserts of Afghanistan."

I stepped beside him and together we started to work. Within moments I was soaked through my shirt and my muscles strained with the effort. I had forgotten how much effort it took to dig out a proper six-foot by six-foot hole and the amount of strength you needed in order to accomplish it. We worked side by side for some minutes, both of us concentrating on moving dirt from one hole into the steadily growing pile by its side.

"May I ask you a very personal question Mr. Mason?"

"You keep diggin' Doc an' you can ask me anythin' you'd like."

"Can you tell me about your son?"

He brought his shovel down with a mighty stroke and thrust it into the dirt. He held onto it and glared at me with hatred in his eyes. "Ow now! 'O'd you know 'bout me son?"

"Father O'Brien's journal."

Mason began taking huge chunks of clay from the hole. "I 'aven't spoken 'bout Jackie in some time. 'E was a good, solid lad 'e was."

"I do not doubt it." I paused my shoveling to wipe my brow with a muddy hand.

"'E was goin' be a priest 'e was. 'Fore anythin' 'appened."

"What happened?"

"Oo'd you speak to 'bout Jackie?"

"Father Mason and his friend Ebenezer."

"What'd they tell you?"

"He was close with Father O'Brien and something happened."

"'E went mad."

"Why do you say that?"

"'E an' Father O'Brien, they talked a lot. 'E cared for the priest. They got it decided 'e was possessed. Jackie nearly died 'cause of that. 'E went to the East End to meet a mate o' 'is 'an 'e was never seen again."

"You don't know what became of your own son?"

"No Doctor," he snarled. "I don't know what became of me own son. The only one I truly believe that knows whot is bleedin' dead wif 'is throat slit by God know whot!" Tears threatened to steam down his face. "'E'll never come back."

"Can you tell me about his madness?"

Mason said nothing and we continued to shovel for several minutes. Finally, he broke the silence. "'E started seeing things. 'E wouldn't tell me wot. I'd catch 'im jus' starin' into the sky an' sometimes 'e'd talk to wotever it was 'e was seein.' I tried to beat it out of 'im but it did no good. 'E'd say things were com'in into the'ouse from the graveyard, spirits an' the like, but 'e never said wot they were."

"I've heard that Jack and Father O'Brien did things together. Do you know what?"

"They'd spend 'ours in the graveyard. More 'an me an' I work it. They'd go off into the back an' sit for 'ours. They'd 'ave their own spot it seemed."

"Would you be willing to take me there."

"If you're willin' t'elp me finsh this 'ole."

I nodded and we worked silently for two and a half hours moving dirt and clay until the perfect size grave was dug.

"'Ere now Doctor," Mason said with a small smile, "whot's it feel like standin' in what could be yer own grave?"

A shiver ran down my spine. "I would like you to help me out of it please."

"Wot, don't want t'stay down there? Afraid you or yer friend'll end up in one soon?"

"What did you say?"

"Everyone dies Doctor. Not many people can say they know wot it feels like t'be in a grave. Yer standin' in one. Could be yers, could be yer friend's could be mine. They're all the same when you start 'em. Know oo's that is?"

The cold wind was starting to freeze my soaked shirt, causing me to shiver uncontrollably. Still, Mason didn't seem ready to help me out of the grave.

"Franklin Richards, the barrister. You know 'em?"

"Yes I do. I treated him and his family for years."

"You the one 'oo signed 'is death certificate?"

"Yes I did."

"Ever stand in the grave of someone you knew Doctor?"

I shook my head and tried my hardest to combat the quickly impending dread that was overcoming me.

"I could cover you in there an' no one would know." A lecherous smile spread across his features.

"Mr. Mason!" Real fear had settled into my bones and I attempted, with very little success, to clamber up the sides of the grave. My wound, however, could not help me find purchase on the earth and I continued to slide back down.

Mason laughed and offered his hand, which I readily took. When I was once again above ground, I glared at him as I put on my jacket.

"I'm sorry Doctor," he said, offering his hand in friendship. "It gets lonely out 'ere wifout Jackie. We used t'kid like that. I was just 'avin' a bit o'sport."

I looked at his outstretched, muddy hand and shook it with my own. "You gave me a fright Mr. Mason."

"I'm sorry Doctor Watson. 'Ow can I make it up to you?"

"Show me where Jack and Father O'Brien would spend time."

"Right this way Doctor."

I picked up my greatcoat and medical bag and followed Mr. Mason through the cemetery. After several minutes of walking, we came to a fair sized clearing lined with several trees.

"This is it Doctor Watson."

I moved forward and began looking around the space. It was bare except for a few large stones and the old remnants of a fire pit.

"Is it the custom to light fires in Catholic cemeteries?"

Mason shrugged his shoulders. "I've never seen one gov."

I knelt down beside it and used my fingers to go through the ashes. I took an envelope out of my medical bag and took a several samples from the pit, as I had seen Holmes do on numerous occasions.

"What're you lookin' for?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know Mr. Mason, I honestly don't know." I sealed the envelope and placed it in the pocket of my greatcoat. I stood and proceeded to look around the area. I had no doubt that my friend would find ample evidence and clues within the crushed grass and the muddy patches. I took a few more envelopes out of my bag and put in a large, black rock that seemed out of place in the clearing. I also pocketed some mud and grass from the area as well.

Mr. Mason smiled at me from under bushy eyebrows. "Are you 'elpin' yer friend?"

"Yes."

"Whydon'tyou just bring 'im 'ere?"

"I will," I said. "But I want to at least bring him something to investigate."

Mason nodded but made no comment. I walked to one of the tree trunks and gave a small cry of surprise. Mason joined me in an instant.

"Whot gov?"

"This symbol. I've seen it before."

"Wot is it?"

"I don't know," I said. I took out a sheet of paper from my notebook and a pencil and made a crude rubbing of it. I then carefully folded it and put it in my pocketbook.

I made another thorough look around the area and then asked Mason to lead me back to the cemetery entrance. This he did and we parted company.

"Thanks for yer 'elp," he said, shaking my hand warmly.

"Thank you for speaking with me."

I hurriedly found a cab and headed back to Baker Street.

When I arrived at Baker Street, I found Holmes sitting in his chair, staring at the burning embers, a hunted look on his face. Much to my surprise, he did not hear me come in. I cautiously approached his chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Holmes?"  
>"Dear Lord Watson!" He barked, nearly toppling to the floor in his surprise. His eyes travelled up and down my body and the biggest grin spread across his face. I was chagrined when it did not meet his eyes. "What the devil have you been doing?"<p>

"I'll be glad to tell you."

"I would think a bath would be in order first," he said.

"Yes, that would be most welcomed."

"Get out of that muddy attire, I'll ring for Mrs. Hudson."

I raised my eyebrows. It was not like him to forget details. "Holmes, Mrs. Hudson isn't here."

"What? Where—oh yes yes visiting her sister. I had forgotten." He shook his head.

"What's gotten into you old boy?"

"Nothing at all. I'm just preoccupied this evening. But come, change your clothes and then tell me what my Watson was doing in the cemetery with a shovel in such biting air."

"How ever did you know that?"

"The color and texture of the soil. And there are some splinters on the inside of your hands. Only a shovel would produce splinters in such a place and only if being used rigorously."

"I was digging a grave if you must know."

"A grave? Oh really, come now Watson!"

"It's true," I said as I divested myself of my great coat.

When Holmes saw my mud streaked attire, a loud guffaw of laugher exited his lips. "I thought you were digging it Watson, not lying in it."

"Go ahead and laugh," I said with mild indignation. I had done a lot of work for him and did not appreciate being derided in such a fashion. "They are deucedly hard to get out of."

"But, my dear fellow, you've hardly told me why you were in it in the first place."

"I needed information on Jack."

He raised his eyebrows. "Who's Jack?"

"Mason's son."

Again, the detective was surprised. "I thought he—"

"As did I. But as it turns out, he has a son."

"Perhaps your bath could wait for some time so you may tell me of these interesting developments."

Despite my shivers, I pulled my chair closer to the fire and warmed my hands for a moment. I then told Holmes all that I knew about Jack, Mason and Father O'Brien. When I had finished, he steepled his fingers beneath his chin and stared at me quizzically.

"I daresay Watson, you improve all the time. Really, I must commend you on your detective skills."

I blushed at the compliment. "I have something for you," I said rising to my medical bag. "I know it isn't much and I do not have the acumen you do, but I've brought you back samples of things I thought might be of interest."

His eyes lit up like a child at Christmas. The lethargy he had shown a few moments previous and he was Holmes the sleuthhound once again. I removed the envelop of ashes from my pocket, as well as the rubbing from my pocketbook. I handed him too, the rest of the samples I had collected.

Holmes moved to his chemical bench and painstakingly asked me what each envelope contained. With a pencil, he labeled the outside of each. When he finished, he looked at me. "I will be here for awhile Watson. I suggest you make yourself comfortable and then rejoin me here."

I did as he suggested and drew myself a hot bath. I allowed the water to seep into my bones, removing the chill and soothing my old war wound. I dunked my head beneath the water's surface and allowed my thoughts to momentarily clear. The case was one of the more fascinating that had ever come to our door, with so many twists and turns I could barely keep hold. And yet there was something that Holmes was deliberately hiding from me, whether a malady or something else, I could not be sure. He usually is forthright with me, as ours is a friendship built on the utmost trust and chivalry, and the fact he was deliberately withholding information from me that could have to do with his health hurt me in the extreme. When my lungs finally burned for air, I raised my head and stepped out of the tepid water. I would, I decided, get to the bottom of Holmes' secret.

After changing into dry and clean clothing, I rejoined Holmes in the sitting room. He was bent over his microscope exclaiming sounds of both frustration and surprise. I knew better then to intrude upon his thoughts and picked up an old sea novel I was reading by Victor Hugo. Although I physically saw the words, my mind did not comprehend them, and I found my thoughts returning to my dearest friend. As I saw him seated, I realized, quite alarmingly that he had lost weight that he could scarcely afford to lose. In my frustration, I slammed the book closed.

"Is the writing so terrible that you can no longer bear to look at it?" He asked, without looking up from his instruments.

"No. You've lost weight."

"Perhaps," was his laconic reply. "That is merely a trifle."

"A trifle? Holmes you are—"

"If you are going to lecture me, I am going to kindly ask you to spend the evening at your club. I am doing important scientific research and cannot be disturbed by you and your medical diatribes."

"I would hardly call them diatribes—"

"Watson, please. If you cannot refrain from speaking, please—"

He was interrupted by the sound of the door. "Damnation!" He growled.

"I'll get the door old fellow." I hurried down the seventeen steps and opened the door. It was a boy with a telegram. I opened the telegram and groaned when I saw its contents. Two patients, a five year old boy and his father, were struck by influenza. My urgent medical care was needed. I rushed up the stairs and began quickly packing my medical bag with new supplies.

"Where are you dashing off to?" Holmes asked as I grabbed my hat and coat.

"I have an emergency. You should be glad, our rooms will be quiet." My words came out harsher then I intended. I stopped when I saw the glimmer of fear in his eyes. "Holmes?"

He shook his head and favored me with a trembling smile. "I'm quite fine Watson. Yes it will be good to have you gone for an hour or two. I do need to concentrate."

"Even still," I wrote down the address where I could be reached and handed it to Holmes. "No matter what I am doing," I said putting the stress on no matter what, "you telegram me and I will be at your side in an instant. Do you understand?"

"Watson, I don't see the need for all these histrionics. You have left me for greater lengths of time and I have managed to survive." His smile was steady but his eyes still glowed with the bright light of terror. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must get back to work."

I nodded, and with another worried glance at my friend, I hurried out the door in search of a hansom. It is the God's honest truth that I wish I had never left my friend alone.


	16. Chapter 16

**My latest update. I've taken some liberties with our boys in this chapter, namely Watson's past, that I hope make sense to you guys and don't take you too much out of the story. I've also played a little bit with Holmes' character, making him a bit more human. Please let me know what you think by R&R! Thanks so much. Enjoy!**

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><p>When I arrived at my patient's home, I knew I was called too late for the boy. His fever was spiraling out of control and he fluctuated between delirium and unconsciousness. His father fared better than he, and within three hours, I was able to eliminate his fever entirely. I sat with the boy all night and well into the morning, working my hardest at saving his life. The strain of influenza was especially hard on children and every physician I knew lost more children to it then we had at any other point in our career. It was around noon, when the young lad finally succumbed to his illness. I closed his eyes and broke the news to his distraught parents, who thanked me profusely for my aid, despite the fact I could not give them the ending they so desired.<p>

Weary in mind, soul, and body, I made my way to Baker Street. I did not have the strength to walk up the seventeen stairs to our rooms, so I sat on the curb and allowed the biting wind to enwrap me in her icy embrace. Despite my best efforts, the tears I had been holding back finally began leaking from my eyes. It was always hard, as a physician, to lose a patient, but to lose one so young was always incomprehensible. I know not how long I sat on the curb outside of Baker Street, with a wave of grief washing over me, but eventually, the frigid air roused me sufficiently, and I took my weary bones up to our rooms.

I had fully expected our rooms to be empty and was surprised to find the fire still burning and a malodorous chemical experiment sitting on a lit Bunsen burner on Holmes chemical bench. However, there was no sign of the consulting detective. "Holmes?" I called into the empty sitting room. "I say Holmes, I'm back." There was no response. Feeling uneasy, I set my medical bag down by the door, and still in my coat, began to walk through our rooms. "Holmes?" I called when I had gotten to his door. "Holmes?" My strong sense of propriety shied away at the thought of intruding upon Holmes' privacy by opening the door, but my concern took over and I opened it.

There I saw the pictures of criminals which adorned each wall and various personal artifacts that belonged to the great detective. The bed, I saw, had not been slept it, and the room, judging from the fine layer of dust that covered everything, had not been used in some time. Where the devil had he been sleeping? I closed the door to his room and walked up the few stairs that led to mine. My heart thudded in my chest when I saw the door was open a crack. With the heel of my hand I opened the door and blinked several times when I saw Holmes, on my bed, the covers drawn over his head, and he was trembling violently. "Holmes?"

"Stay back, stay right back!" His voice was fevered and sounded thin and reedy to my ears. "Whatever you are stay back!"

"Holmes, it's me. It's Watson."

"I know your tricks," he said. "You have no proof that you are he."

My sense of alarm was growing rapidly. Cautiously, I approached the bed and the detective let out a terrified shriek.

"I said stay back."

"Holmes, whatever is the matter?"

"Don't come a step closer."

My alarm turned to a sense of panic and I grasped the covers and ripped them from his body. I could see his eyes were bright with the light of fever and a sheen of sweat covered his body, causing his very clothes to soak through. He backpedaled towards my headboard and stopped when his back struck the wood.

"Stay back!" He raised up his hands to shield his face as though I was going to attack him.

As a medical man I had seen such behavior on numerous occasions, I've seen patients be terrified of demons in their own mind, but I had never seen such a feat with Holmes. Judging from the violence of his hallucinations, I feared he might have the onset of brain fever. I knew I had to tend to him and do it quickly. "Holmes, you've nothing to fear," I said, keeping my voice pitched low. "It is I. It's Watson. Don't you recognize me?"

He lowered his hands a fraction of an inch and stared at me. "Prove you are he."

I sighed in frustration. "How the devil am I supposed to prove who I am? Honestly Holmes!"

"Prove it," he repeated.

"You keep your tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper." Suddenly a thought entered my mind which stopped me from speaking even further. I cleared my throat and stared hard at the man. "You occasionally dabble in a seven percent solution of cocaine and morphine." I wondered whether or not his syringe had been idle in my absence, and if not, this was the direct result of taking too much. My head pounded at that prospect. "You keep a record of every person in London in your common place books, which you keep telling me you're going to organize but you never do. You are a lightweight boxer, a single stick expert and a wrestler. When you retire you want to go to Sussex to keep bees. Honestly Holmes, is that proof enough?"

"You could have known that from reading Watson's stories."

"For Holmes for God's sake it's me."

"I don't—"

"My wife Mary Watson nee Morstan died of consumption during the three years you were presumed dead in Switzerland. She was with child when she died. I was too grief stricken over your death to notice her symptoms. She died clutching my hand in the throes of a terrible fever." Recalling those memories sent a piercing shard through my heart. I had to take a moment to recover. "If my child was a boy he was going to be Christened Sherlock Watson because Mary and I owed our very marriage to you and because you were my dearest friend. For God's sake Holmes, is that proof enough or are you going to torture me by having me relate more painful memories to you?"

My friend seemed satisfied that I was who I said I was and lowered his hands. "Watson."

I swallowed, not knowing what to say.

"I'm sorry for all of that," he said with a wave of his hand. "I just couldn't be sure."

"What couldn't you be sure of?"

"They came here."

"Who?"

He shook his head in fear. "I can't talk about it. They said they'd hurt you if I did."

I raised my eyebrows. His hallucinations were dangerous then. More and more his symptoms pointed to an active syringe. "You can tell me, I'm a solider after all."

He shook his head. "They said they were you."

"I can assure you Holmes, there is only one John Watson, MD."

"Do not chide me Watson."

I carefully placed a hand on his forehead and felt it radiating with heat. "Come, into the sitting room."

"They're in there."

"Holmes, I just came from the sitting room. There is no one there. You can come with me, we'll look together."

With that thought, he exited my room and timidly followed me into the sitting room where we looked underneath and behind every piece of furniture. When he was satisfied, he sat in his chair and smiled tiredly at me. "They seem to have gone," he said.

"So they have." I once again moved to my black medical bag and lifted it. After I divested myself of my greatcoat, I returned to the settee and moved closer to Holmes. "To ensure they stay gone though, I must give you a thorough medical examination." I felt guilty for using his mind against him, but any port will do in a storm.

"You do?" He was skeptical.

"Oh yes." If the situation were not so grave, I would have been terrified by his gullibility. "Now off with your jacked and your shirt. Quickly now."

Mutely he removed both and sat in his chair bare chested. I took my stethoscope, and after warming it between my hands, placed it against his skin. I instructed him to breath in and out and frowned when I heard bubbling in his lungs. His condition was indeed serious! I took his temperature and found it was elevated to a dangerous level. "Here," I said moving off the settee. "Come and lie down." He did as I instructed and I covered him with the ever-present grey blanket. I fetched a glass of water and mixed in a powder. "Drink this," I said offering him the glass. "It will help your fever go down." He drank the liquid without question and I fixed a mixture for my syringe. "I needn't tell you you'll feel a slight prick."

He smiled then. "I am all too familiar with that sensation Watson. It is like an old friend."

"I fear you might have gone too far with it," I said. Before giving him a chance to respond, I injected the medicine into his arm. In ten minutes, his eyes were closed and he was sleeping soundly.

I soundlessly moved to where he kept his syringe and frowned when I saw his mixture of cocaine was almost empty. "Confound it all," I swore quietly. I had found the source of his violent hallucinations and paranoia. So much for it being a stimulant for when his brain is not engaged. I had half a mind to empty the vial but I knew he would just replace it. I did not have the energy, at that moment, to begin fighting his cocaine addiction.

I watched over him for hours, checking and rechecking his temperature. When it elevated I gave him an injection, which would, hopefully, keep it down. It was a vigil not unlike the one I had just kept and I prayed to God above, it would not have the same disastrous results. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, his temperature disappeared. I sighed and sat in my chair, the weariness of the day, hitting me suddenly. I must've closed my eyes for a moment because the next thing I remember was Sherlock Holmes standing fully dressed in front of me. "Watson! Watson wake up!"

I jumped alert and looked into my friend's eyes, which were twinkling and the terror in them had all but disappeared. "Holmes, how are you feeling?"

"That's not important old fellow. What is important is what I have discovered."

I sighed. "That's not important right now Holmes. There is something more pressing that needs to be discussed."

He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"I have just spent the last several hours tending to patients, one of whom I lost."

"I'm sorry Watson I—"

"I come home only to find you in my bed hallucinating because you've taken too much cocaine!"

"What?"

"Do you not wonder why you awoke shirtless on the settee?"

"Yes but—"

"I have enough to worry about," I thundered, "with my practice. With my patients, some of who are dying. I have to worry about you and whatever disease you have contracted and are attempting to hide from me. I do not need to add your reckless habits to that mixture. I have just spent," I looked at my watch and frowned, "the past five hours fighting for your life!"

He was stunned into silence at my rage. Never before have I spoken to him with such force. "Watson—"

"You are sick, whether or not you want to admit it to me or yourself and the cocaine is only going to worsen your condition. You had a fever so high it could have sparked brain fever. Do you know how serious that is?"

He nodded.

"And you have nothing to say for yourself?"

He looked down at his feet. "I'm sorry Watson. I wasn't thinking."

His nonchalant tone enraged me like never before. "Like hell you weren't!" I stopped when I saw genuine lines of worry in his face. "What possessed you to indulge in that now?"

He was silent.

"Well?"

"I—I can't tell you Watson," he said firmly. Was it my imagination or was there once again fear in his grey eyes. "I…"

I was unrelenting. "Why can't you tell me? What are you trying to hide? For God's sake Holmes! Tell me! I can help!"

The first trace of tremors entered his usually rock steady hands. "If I could find a logical explanation then I would share it with you. As for this malady, I couldn't explain my symptoms if I tried."

"I can guarantee you that I have treated almost everything, including, despite your immense disbelief in my abilities concerning this area, Eastern diseases."

He smiled thinly but it did not reach his eyes. "How can I describe something to you I don't understand myself?"

"You can try."

He shook his head in the negative. "When I feel I need your professional services," he said at length, "I will kindly ask for them. Until that point, I do not need you concerned about my welfare. That is my concern and mine alone, do I make myself clear?"

"You are asking me to do something I cannot."

"Then I no longer need your assistance on this investigation."

"What?"

"If you cannot leave my health alone, then—"

"Confound it Holmes!" I was out of my seat in an instant and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. "Have you lost your wits? Will this case finally be the one that has undone the great detective?"

"How dare you speak to me in such a fashion!"

"How dare I? It is you who are keeping me deliberately in the dark where my services are most needed. You, Holmes, are the one that has been insensible lately. You are the one who is taking unnecessary gambles with your life and your sanity. I saw today how far gone—"

"I'm afraid!" He blurted out angrily. "Does that not tell you enough?"

I calmed my tone and let go of him. "What are you afraid of?"

He shook his head and thrust his hands in his pockets. "I cannot say."

Frustrated, I grabbed my coat and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To my club, where I can spend a sensible hour or two—"

"Please," he said quietly. "Don't leave. I beg of you."

I turned to face him. "Holmes?"

"This investigation, the more we delve into it the more dark it becomes. Things are happening, Watson. Things I cannot explain. The cocaine helps. I did not know what else to do in your absence," he said, looking at the floor. He could not meet my eyes. "I need to solve this Watson, for if I do not, I fear I will go mad."

I knew how much it cost him to reveal so much when his nature is so private. I crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. I was chagrined when I felt he was shivering. "You should not doubt that I am at your side always, even when you attempt to send me away."

"Good old Watson," he said softly. "Good old Watson." In an instant, the confused vulnerable man was gone, replaced by the consulting detective. "Now, come. I have much to show you."

Wearily, I approached his chemical bench.

"This substance that I have been breaking down all day—"

"I really must ask you to refrain from keeping a Bunsen burner on unattended Holmes. You could have caused a fire."

He waved away my concern with his hand. "That is of no consequence to me. But see here, do you know what this substance is? Look closely."

I looked over his shoulder at the liquid oozing it a pitri dish. "What is that?"

"Oh come, come Doctor. Surely you have come across such a substance in your profession."

I bent down closer and let out a little cry of surprise. "It's blood!"

"There's my Watson. Yes, it is indeed blood."

"Where did you get it?"

"Do you not remember the black rock that you handed me yesterday?"

"But blood should not crystalize in such a manner."

"Ah but Watson, when it is treated with a substance such as this." He removed a small white pouch from his pocket. I recognized it instantly. "That is from Cumming."

"However did you know?" He was genuinely surprised.

"The pouch. I have several of those in my medical bag at any given moment."

"You really are improving all the time, my dear fellow."

"But what is that?"

"Tetrodotoxin and Datura. Two toxic substances from the Islands."

"Islands?"

"The West Indies I believe," Holmes said. "A wild place, filled with intrigue. We shall go one day Watson, if for no other reason then to see the full effects of these two substances."

"What do they do?"

"Here, let me show you." Holmes removed a bare bodkin and pushed it into his fingers, removing several drops of blood, which he squeezed into a beaker. "Do me a favor Watson. Take some of the power and place it in the blood. Be careful not to come in contact with your mouth or nose. I believe it is more fatal then Radix pedis diaboli."

At the mention of that fatal drug, my hands began to shake and I nearly dropped the pouch of powder.

"Careful Watson!"

I steadied my hands and poured some of the powder into the beaker. Holmes took a pipette and began to mix it. Within seconds, I saw the blood begin to crystalize. "Pon my word Holmes!"

"Set that down carefully Watson."

I set the bag down and looked at my friend. He was staring at something intently. "What is it Holmes?"

"I see what it does to blood. Might we try and experiment through the air?"

"You mean you want to breath in that horrible substance?"

"I'm getting a sense that it is at the heart of this matter," he said. "A very good sense. And I must know how it works."

"Holmes the last time you did that we almost died."

"Yes, well I won't be subjecting you to this Watson, I—"

"No Holmes. I shall not stand by and watch you commit suicide in the name of science."

"Not suicide Watson, making headway on a case."

"As your physician I forbid it."

"I am not asking you for your medical advice."

"As you friend—"

"I am going to try it, regardless of what you say. I would like to know my friend and my physician are going to be in a nearby proximity. I also think I might inject it."

"Holmes surely you go too far!"

"I will do what it takes for peace of mind Watson," his lips trembled slightly, "my life, as it is now, is of very little consequence."

"Holmes I must insist—"

"Watson I will not be swayed."

"I will not attempt to sway you. I just ask that you give me a few hours to see if any of my colleagues know of the drugs. I want to be well armed to treat you should something happen. You don't know if it's a poison or—"

He raised his hand to silence me. "Will you be leaving Baker Street?"

I hesitated. I needed to leave to speak with Fredrick Crawford of Harley Street, but I did not want to leave Holmes unattended. "Why don't you come with me? We can see if he will see us. I will send a telegram on ahead."

"Afraid to leave a madman to his own devices? Afraid I'll succumb to the siren call of my syringe?" There was something disquieting about Holmes' sudden shift of mood. I do not want to give the impression he was even tempered for my friend was not, however he was rarely abusive in his tone towards me, even when he was in his blackest of fits. In this instance his tone was acerbic in the extreme. "Afraid your mediocre medical skills will not bring me back from the depths into which I have sunk? Afraid I'll be like your wife?"

I gasped in surprise. "Holmes that is unworthy of you. It shows me how far-gone your mind truly is."

"Oh that is rich Doctor. Surely you are more far-gone then I. How many patients have you lost this month Watson? Two? Five? Seven? Are you afraid to add your eccentric friend to that growing score?"

I kept telling myself it was the cocaine talking, although something made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. His tone was not that of Sherlock Holmes. It was harsh and grating and there was something strangely familiar about it, as though I had heard it before. "Holmes, here now. That is enough. I will not stand here and listen to another word."

"That is my hope Doctor. I want you to leave, abandon me forever. I've grown to hate you. To hate everything you stand for. The sight of you, the cripple you are, makes me ill."

I do not deny that tears were standing in my eyes, threatening to fall at any moment. I took two steps backward.

"That's it Doctor. Run like the coward you are. Run into the arms of your dead wife. I certainly won't stop you."

The tears I had been trying to hold back escaped and I stood, facing him. "Holmes you go too far."

"I go too far? From a man who killed his patients? From a man who killed his wife? Who killed his unborn child? From a man who let me die at Reichenbach?"

Before I knew what became me, I had my friend by the throat and pushed against a wall. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I shan't listen to another word Holmes. I shall not!"

"Are you going to add my murder to your ever growing list? Hmm I should look nice next to Mary and baby Sherlock."

"So help me Holmes—"

"What are you going to do Doctor? You're too spineless to do anything. Except commit murder. Ask Mary."

Before I could stop myself, my fist connected with his aquiline profile, causing his head to crack against the wall. A flower of blood blossomed from his nose. He looked up at me in shock. "Watson?"

I stepped back, vibrating with fury, tears openly streaming down my face.

"Watson?" Holmes touched his nose in surprise.

"How could you?" I asked, my voice breaking. "How could you?"

"How could I? Watson you've hit me."

"I'll hit you again, I swear it. Say another word and I won't hesitate to strike you."

"You're crying. Watson what's going on?"

"Don't play the fool with me Holmes. Don't stand there and play the fool. After everything I've given up, after everything I have sacrificed to be by your side. I thought…" I stopped when my voice dissolved in a fit of sobs. Try as I might I could not steam the tide of tears. "How could you treat me in such a fashion? And to think I trusted you. To think I have come to love you more then I ever loved my own brother. What a fool was I!" I sank into my chair and buried my face in my hands.

"Watson?" I felt Holmes' hand upon my shoulder. I brushed it off as though it were hot.

"Don't touch me. I will be out of Baker Street tonight."

I had never seen such a look of alarm in his features. "What?"

"I will have my things removed as soon as I find other lodgings."

He was panic-stricken. Quickly he grasped my shoulders. "Whatever I've done, Watson is there no atonement?"

"After what you said to me? About my wife? My child? When I told you these things I never once expected you to—" The tears threatened to fall again and I dashed them away angrily.

"What did I say?"

"Don't. Don't try to act! Be a man, at least own up to what you said to me. Tell me you hate me again."

"I hate—Dear Lord Watson I would never say such a thing. I hold you in the utmost regard, surely you know that!"

"I had thought that always."

"And your wife?"

I was suddenly weary and I felt as though I had aged an eternity. "Don't Holmes, I haven't the strength. Just go, leave me in peace as I pack my things." I stood then and packed my medical bag and began organizing my desk.

"Watson, I cannot stand here and allow you to leave without—"

"Allow me? You're going to allow me? Sir, you have over stepped yours boundaries."

"Boundaries? Watson, please I—" Quite uncharacteristically his voice broke. "You can't leave, please I beg of you!" Before I could react, his hands were on my shoulders, forcing me to stare into his wild and terrified eyes. Ordinarily I would have been cut to the quick at such an open and unguarded expression, however my heart was flint. "Listen to me, please. I do not know what I have said to anger you in such a fashion."

"Anger? Holmes if I were simply angry I should forgive you in an instant as I have so many times when you have chided and belittled me. But this time I cannot. Now please, let me be."

He touched his nose and I was momentarily afraid I had broken it. My duties as a physician sparked my next actions. "Sit on the settee there. Before I go I should at least ensure I have done no permanent damage." He sat without a word, and I removed gauze from my medical bag. When I ensured there was no damage other then blood, I tilted his head forward and pressed gauze on the tip. "Hold that in place and pinch. That should stop the bleeding."

"Thank you Watson." Something then, at the finality of his tone stopped me.

"Holmes?"

He was facing away from me, with his head down. His entire frame was shaking. I touched his shoulder and I was surprised he had tears in his eyes. Such an action from a self contained man like Sherlock Holmes startled me more then I cared to admit. Suddenly I remembered the tone he had used when he assaulted me.

"Holmes, can you say something to me?"

"What would you like me to say Doctor?" He had resorted to using my professional title. "You claim you are leaving, although I still do not know why. You claim I had ill used you although I do not remember having done so. You said I've said things against your wife and child, and I know I would never—Watson I know how much that would hurt you. Why are you so convinced I would do such a thing?" His tone was wretched and terrified, and yet it was his baritone.

Then it hit me. I had heard him employ such a tone outside of Cumming's shop. Afterwards, he remembered nothing. Could the same thing have happened now?

Slowly, I took my chair and looked at the detective. "I will have what may be our last conversation together should my questions not be answered."

"How can I answer your questions when I do not know what I have said?" He fairly screamed the words in his frustration.

"You do not remember telling me I murdered Mary and my child?"

His face grew extremely pale and for a moment, I feared he was going to faint. I pressed onward. "You do not remember calling me an incompetent cripple, that I disgusted you, how I murdered my patients and allowed you to die at Reichenbach? Do you deny you've said those things to me?"

He could formulate no answer and looked at the floor.

"Look at me," I barked. "At least have the decency to look at me."

When he did, I was much surprised to see tears streaming down his cheeks. Before I could react he was sick on the carpet. I was at his side in an instant, my hatred, for the moment, put aside.

"Holmes?"

"I—I would never say those things. I swear to God I would not. Watson, I may do many things, I may deride you, I may ill use you at times, I may indulge in cocaine and reckless behavior, which upsets your delicate sensitivities but I would never hurt you in such a fashion, and I would never hate you. You are my Boswell Watson, and I am truly lost without you."

I did not doubt his sentiments, they were spoken too sincerely, and yet I could not forget his words, they rang too painful in my ears. "What do you remember in the last twenty minutes?"

"You asked me to accompany you somewhere."

"And?"

"And then you hit me."

"What about what happened in between?"

"I tell you man there was nothing in between. One moment I was going with you to consult an associate the next moment you struck me. I remember nothing else."

He had no reason to lie to me and his eyes were looked frightened. "I believe you," I said at length.

He let out a shaky breath. "Thank God for that."

"Let's get you cleaned up."

I rose to go when he grabbed my hand with such force that I almost toppled off balance. I looked down at him.

"I will spend the next five life times atoning for what I have said to you. I will do whatever it takes to—"

"It will not come to that," I said. With a sinking feeling I remembered Father Michaels warning that we had unleashed something. "I do not believe it was your voice that spoke those things."

I cleaned up the sitting room, and helped Holmes clean himself, as he seemed too dazed to do so. When we had finished, I looked at him and forced a smile that I did not feel. My feelings for him were so confused that I would need time to sort them out. While I knew he did not say those words, a part of me still doubted and wondered. "Come, let us go to Harley Street and consult Doctor Crawford."

We left Baker Street by hansom, heading towards Harley Street. The cab ride was one of the longest rides I have ever experienced. It was spent in extremely tense silence, Holmes and I both, undoubtedly, thinking about the events of the previous hour. The more I looked at the tortured man seated next to me, the less my heart hardened against him. I knew, the incident was spiraling him down into a black fit, and I knew it would take all of my energies to keep him from indulging once again in the cocaine.

When we arrived at Harley Street, Holmes and I entered the ornate waiting room. Holmes looked around appreciatively.


	17. Chapter 17

**Another update. I've been feeling rather inspired. Please let me know what you think by R&R. **

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><p>"I had the option of a practice like this," I said, unsure why I was going down such a road.<p>

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

"I sold it to once again take up rooms with you."

At the fleck of pain that entered his eyes, I instantly regretted saying it. "I'm sorry," I said at length. "That was unworthy of me."

He smiled a smile that did not meet his eyes, but said nothing. Further discomfort was spared when we were shown into Dr. Crawford's consulting room.

"Ah Doctor Watson," the heavyset man said to me, gripping my hand tightly, "this is certainly a pleasure."

"The same Doctor. Thank you for seeing us."

"And this much be the must celebrated Sherlock Holmes."

My friend smiled but it looked positively garish in the light. "Yes, celebrated no doubt, by my dear friend Doctor Watson who has always shown me in the best of lights." He was attempting to flatter me and I was not angered by his efforts.

"Undoubtedly. I do enjoy reading your writings Doctor."

I thanked him for his complements and then turned to the matter at hand. "I know you are an expert in all things Eastern and in all outré medicine. I was wondering if you might help us with an investigation?"

"It would be my honor to do so. Please take a seat."

Holmes and I sat in overstuffed chairs that were more comfortable then any I had ever had in my own consulting room. "What do you know of Tetrodotoxin and Datura?"

He thought for a moment and then rose to consult a large book on a bookshelf. He flipped pages and stopped at a page. He read briefly and then continued looking. After several minutes, he looked up.

"What do you need to know Doctor?"

"The effects of such a substance," Holmes said.

"The Datura is extremely toxic and could kill you if ingested. It equally should not be handled as the toxins can seep into your blood."

I glared at Holmes who had been handling just that toxic plant several nights ago. He was indeed reckless with his own personal health.

"And the other?" Holmes asked.

"The Tetrodotoxin is a bit more complicated," the Harley Street physician said. "There is not much known about it, however it can prove to be extremely toxic. It can either be injected or rubbed into the skin, however both can prove to be equally fatal."

I once again glared at my dearest friend. To think I had almost come close to losing him!

"It is generally mixed with a marine toad, a hyla tree frog, and human remains. Sometimes, the person poisoned can remain conscious until shortly after death."

"But that defies logic," I ejaculated.

"Quite so Doctor Watson. However, I have no proof of these qualities. When these ingredients are mixed together, if death does not occur, it produces a comatose and paralysis that the person suffering can be buried and then brought back to life. If all goes well, after a few hours, the person wakes up and believes they were reanimated from the dead."

"Would the person be conscious of the effects to his body?" Holmes asked. "Would they be able to know what is going on inside of them?"

I frowned, because I knew what was going on his mind. "Holmes—"

"I don't know Mr. Holmes," Doctor Crawford said.

"But if they remember their experience?" Holmes pressed.

"Then it is my belief they would."

Holmes' mouth was grim line and I knew he was weighing something heavily. It didn't take a consulting detective to deduce he was thinking whether or not he was going to experiment with the drug.

"The drug, when applied to the skin, causes irritation and burns it, sinking into the bloodstream."

Chemical burn then. Very hard to treat.

"Is there anything else?"

"That is all I know Mr. Holmes. I just caution you against it, should you come in contact with it. It could prove to be extremely toxic."

"How does one survive? Is there anything medically that a doctor can do to bring a person out of such a state?"

"I don't believe so Doctor. It has to wear off. I suppose you could keep an eye on respiration and pulse, and provide as much support as possible."

I nodded. If Holmes chose to pursue this insane course, there was little I could do to save him should something go disastrously wrong.

When Doctor Crawford finished, we bid him thanks and left his practice for Baker Street.

"Holmes," I said in the cab ride back, "you don't need to do this. We can simply deduce—"

"You know my methods Watson. I cannot leave anything up to conjecture."

"You could die!"

He raised his eyebrows and looked at me wretchedly. "You do not wish it?"

I looked at him as though he had gone daft. "Not for the wide world. You are my dearest friend Holmes and I have forgiven you for what you have said."

"While your forgiveness is welcomed, my agony is not assuaged," he confessed. "It might never be assuaged," he said more softly.

"Don't be so hard on yourself."

He shook his head and once again fell into a dark silence.

When the cab stopped, we reentered Baker Street and Holmes stopped suddenly in the doorway. His head looked left, and then right, and then left again. I heard him inhale a breath sharply.

"Holmes?"

"Quiet Watson," he said harshly. "Just remain quiet."

We stood in the doorway for ten minutes in silence, Holmes' ears and eyes hearing and seeing something that was unknown to me. He let out a shaky breath and stepped into the sitting room.

"Holmes, I daresay, what is the matter?"

"We will conduct our experiment in two hours time," he said. Much to my dismay he approached his desk and removed his Morocco case.

"Holmes, please I beg of you."

"I must Watson, you must understand that."

"I have no more anger towards you. I have all but forgotten what you have said."

"It is not just that Watson." Once again his eyes were hunted. "It is not just that."

"Then what is it, tell me!"

He shook his head and threw off his jacket. While he was still standing he rolled up his shirtsleeves and opened his Morocco case. In less time then it takes to write, his syringe was filled and the substance injected into his bloodstream. He collapsed with a shaky sigh in his chair.

Anger filled me at his reckless behavior. Suddenly, feeling the weight of exhaustion, as I hadn't slept in I didn't remember how long, I told Holmes I was going to retire and if he needed anything he had only to call. He nodded in assent and I went up to my room, and collapsed on my bed fully dressed. Immediately I feel into a deep, five fathom sleep.

I awoke, some time later, of a horrible nightmare with the dead I had lost circling me on the precipice of Reichenbach Falls, the waterfall roaring with screams of those I was not able to save. I awoke myself with a horrid scream ripping from my throat.

As I sat staring into the blackness of my room, my door opened and the gas was turned partway up. It was Holmes.

"Holmes," I said, taking in a deep breath. I looked at him and saw his fevered and glassy eyes and knew he was still in the throes of that awful drug. I looked away, too angry to say a word.

"I was under the impression something had happened," he said. "I heard you scream."

"Yes," I answered. "I've had a rather upsetting day and it seemed to have manifested itself into dreams."

"Ah," he answered. He stood in the doorway, shifting weight uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Is there something you wanted?"

He took a deep breath and stared at the floor. "Something is happening to me," he said so quietly I couldn't be sure I hadn't imagined it.

"What?"

"Something," he reiterated, "is happening to me."

"The cocaine surely—"

"It is not the cocaine! I know the effects of cocaine and it keeps—" He shook his head fiercely. "It keeps things away."

"What sort of things?"

"Do you remember what happened when we entered the sitting room earlier?"

I nodded.

"There was something there, inside. I could just barely see it…"

My blood suddenly turned to ice in my veins when I remembered Father O'Brien's journal. "Holmes—"

"Then it disappeared. It stays away when I take the cocaine. My mind clears."

"Let me examine your eyes," I said, although I very much doubted it was something so commonplace as that. "When something goes wrong with your eyes, sometimes that makes things appear in your peripheral vision. Is that what's occurring?"

He nodded.

"Come then," I said. "Into the sitting room. Let us see whether or not these visions can be cured by some medical science." I kept my voice light as I knew he was more frightened then I had ever seen him.

We entered the sitting room and I turned the gas up as high as it could go. I also stoked the fire, to give me as much light as possible. I hurried to my medical bag and got the supplies I needed, including a small candle and some matches. I lit the candle then opened one of his eyelids. "I want to ensure that your eyes react properly to light." Both of his pupils contracted when light was shone into them. That was a good sign.

I gave a very thorough exam, and when I finished, I was no closer to discovering the reason for his bizarre ocular hallucinations.

"Well Watson?" He asked in a voice that dared not to hope.

I cleared my throat. "You have a slight broken blood vessel in your right eye," I answered. "I noticed it was a little pink this morning."

"Can that attest to—"

I decided it wouldn't hurt to lie to him for the first and only time in our association. "It could," I answered. "It is nothing definite, but it could certainly contribute."

"Which means," he said slyly, "my eyes are fine."

I felt my face catch fire. "Yes Holmes."

He laughed bitterly. "You really are trying to save a madman from himself."

I gave a sharp intake of breath. My nerves could not stand another strange outburst. "Please," I said as gently as I could, "let's not start that again. It's too painful."

He raised his eyebrows. "Start what?"

I took a deep breath and was chagrined to find my hands were shaking from emotion. I thrust them in my pockets. Suddenly, for reasons unexplained, the blackest fit of depression I had ever known settled hard upon me. "Leave it Holmes."

"Watson, I don't know what I've—dear Lord! Stay still, stay very still."

"What?"

"Don't make a sound. Please stay very still Watson. Very very still." He tone was frenzied, his face pale and drawn.

I didn't have any idea what could have frightened him so much. He was staring into a void behind me, and despite the fact I always obeyed his wishes, I turned around and found nothing there but the roaring fire. Everything seemed perfectly normal. "Holmes?"

"Watson I—"

"Holmes, old boy, there's nothing there."

"You don't see it?" He asked incredulously.

"I see nothing save the fire." I touched his forehead and felt it hot to the touch. "Here," I pushed him back gently. "Lie down here for a moment."

"But Watson—"

"I won't let anything hurt you Holmes. When is the last time you slept?"

"A little while ago—"

"When I didn't sedate you."

He was still staring at the fire, eyes wide. "I don't remember."

"That is part of your problem old boy. You need a good night's rest. You've been injecting yourself with cocaine for God knows how long, you're working yourself to exhaustion, it is no small wonder your mind is out of sorts."

He blinked his eyes and looked at me. He exhaled sharply. "There is no time to sleep," his tone was once again masterful, and the fear in his eyes all but disappeared. He leapt to his feet with his usual flair and smiled broadly at me. "It is time to work."

"Holmes, I must strongly protest—"

"Yes, well Watson, I have never truly listened to your medical advice." I was glad for the teasing quality of his tone. Things were, at least for the present moment, returning to some semblance of normalcy.

"I do wish you—"

"I will need your medical assistance with this Watson."

"There is nothing I can do to dissuade you?"

"No. While you were sleeping I took the liberty to have some items delivered to Baker Street."

"Dare I ask what?"

"A dried marine toad and a hyla tree frog."

"Where did you ever find that?"

"You are not the only one, my dear fellow, with outré associates. I did ground some of those things in my mortar and mixed in some Tetrodotxin. I think I've come up with a reasonable mixture."

"Is there nothing I can do to dissuade you?"

He shook his head. "This will be a critical piece to our investigation dear fellow."

"Let me at least take your pulse and measure your respiration," I said, feeling my very heart sink in my breast.

"You will then, stand beside me Doctor?"

"Of course Holmes and I will do everything in my power to assist you and keep you amongst the living." With less then steady hands, I took his pulse whish was slightly elevated but nothing to be alarmed about. His breathing was heavy and somewhat erratic, but I knew my best intentions would be met with derision. I listened to his heart, which although was thudding against his chest, sounded strong and healthy.

"Well?"

"This goes against all of my medical instincts. This goes against the very fiber of my being. This goes far beyond the bounds of sanity—far beyond what should be expected in the bonds of friendship. You do not realize what you are asking of me!"

He raised his eyebrows. "I am asking for your professional help and I am asking you to stand by me when—"

"You're asking me to possibly watch you die while you're under my medical care." The life of the young boy I had lost still weighed heavily upon my conscious. "As whatever came over you so aptly pointed out to me, I have lost far too many patients as of late to this influenza. I dread at the thought of possibly losing you as well."

"Then you shan't," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Surely you have not lost faith in my abilities?"

"I never could."

"Then all will be well, you'll see." He stripped out of his jacked and rolled up a shirt sleeve, revealing an arm that was riddled with syringe marks, two of which were inflamed and bloodied, showing he had taken less then his usual care when taking it. "I thought this arm," he indicated the marks, "would be most useful in the powder getting absorbed into the skin."

I agreed with him, but said nothing.

"What I want you to do Watson," he said, handing me his own scientific notebook and pencil, "is to write down everything you see and observe, leave nothing out. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Holmes."

He reached over to his desk and removed his pestle from his bench. He looked at me and gave me a very shaky smile. "Well old boy, shall we begin?"

I nodded, not having the voice so speak.

"It'll be all right Watson, I promise." Without another word, he dumped some of the finely ground powder onto his arm and replaced the pestle. With his other hand, he began to rub the mixture into his skin, over the bloody syringe marks. He hissed his teeth in gripped the chair next to him. "I didn't anticipate the pain," he said in a small voice. "Watson, I need—" He collapsed into himself and let out a small howl of agony. I reached towards him but he signaled me away. "You're to observe," he said through clenched teeth, "not help unless it's dire."

I nodded.

Suddenly a scream tore from his throat and he collapsed onto the ground, trembling as if he had developed an ague. His eyes rolled back in his head and he shirked in terror. Then, just as quickly, he went deadly still.

"Holmes!" I shouted. I rushed over and felt for a pulse. There was none. There was also no respiration. I know not how to describe what I felt at that moment. A sort of numbness fell over me, and I sat back on my haunches and started at my dearest friend. I tried to swallow, and yet I could not. Tears filled my eyes and ran down my cheeks in hot trails of agony. I had failed him for the second time; I had allowed him to die. "Oh Holmes," I grabbed his hand which was cooling rapidly. "I am so sorry."

I knew I should send a telegram to his brother, I knew I should contact Scotland Yard. I knew I would be held on suspicion of murder, but did not weigh with me for an instant. I would rather spend my life in Newgate jail then live as a free man without my dearest friend. I knew I needed to contact Mrs. Hudson and inform her of Holmes' passing, and yet I could bring myself to do none of it. I just sat beside the lifeless corpse of Sherlock Holmes and wept bitter tears of grief and regret.

I thought of my wife and my child, of all of my patients, and of Holmes. I wondered how it was possible for me to keep losing those I cared most about. I found myself hating a God I didn't even know if He existed, I hated my very soul. Time seemed to stand still for I know not how many hours passed in that wretched sitting room. The light outside faded and was replaced by a dark, endless night. When I thought my thoughts would finally drive me mad, it seemed as though another, blacker thing had over taken my mind.

Before I could register what I was doing, I my service revolver was in my hand, open and I was placing bullets in the cartridges. All that kept going through my mind were dark images of my wife, of my patients, of Holmes at Reichenbach. All of them helpless and needed me to save them. And I could do nothing. Holmes' alter voice was correct, I was a mediocre, crippled doctor who should have given up medicine a long time ago. I cocked my gun and stared at it for a long while, remembering all the times that it had been used for good. I remember all the times I had felt comforted by having it in my pocket. The weight, the feel.

I remembered too, the agonizing pain that exploded in my leg in Afghanistan. The heat and unending agony that comes with a gunshot wound. The pain I wished never again to experience. Would I truly be willing to do so again, by my own hand? My hands shook and I contemplated the gun for I know not how long. A distant clocked chimed the hour of one, but it didn't matter to me. Nothing seemed to matter any more.

I picked up my gun and walked around the sitting room, feeling its weights in my hand. I stopped, before the fireplace and cocked it, the sound echoing loudly in the otherwise silent sitting room.

I closed my eyes and raised the gun to my temple. My finger caressed the trigger and I began to sob in earnest. "I'm so sorry Holmes. I'm so sorry."

I took a deep breath and began to squeeze when—

"Watson!" I dropped the gun in an instant and my eyes flew open. I saw the extremely pale face Sherlock Holmes, dripping with sweat, staring at me with wide eyes. "Good Lord Watson!" He struggled to stand up and with Herculean effort he managed and swayed on his feet. He lurched towards me on trembling and unsteady legs. He gripped my shoulders with horror in his eyes. "What the hell were you thinking? What in the bloody hell were you thinking?" He looked down at the gun and kicked it out of reach. "Dear God Watson, what were you thinking?"

"I thought you died," I said, my voice small and trembling. "I thought you died."

"I didn't think it would so strongly effect you that you'd want to take your own life!" There was rage in his voice, which was tempered by panic. "Good Lord man!"

"You didn't think it would effect me? Having you die for a second time when there has been so much death on my shoulders as of late? With the guilt I carry daily that I couldn't save my wife and child? I watched you die! I saw you collapse I felt your pulse and there was nothing there. I lost you under my medical care!"

We stood, staring one another, silently saying more then words could ever express. With a shaking hand, Holmes squeezed my arm and forced me to look into his terror stricken eyes. "John," it was the first time he had ever used my Christian name, "I am so terribly sorry."

I nodded and knew what such an admission cost him. "It's all right Holmes." I patted his shoulder. "It's all right."

He moved away from me then, and picked up my gun. He opened the chamber and removed the bullets. He put them in his pockets and put the gun back in its resting place. On less then steady legs, he poured two tumblers of brandy and wordless handed one to me.

I drank it down in one shot and refilled it. Holmes had done the same. We sat then, in our accustomed chairs, and stared into the burning fire, each of us too wrapped up in our own thoughts to want to intrude upon the others. It was Holmes who eventually broke the silence.

"Do you remember, Watson, the affair of Baskerville Hall? The Roylott murder? The affair of Mary Morstan and the Agra Treasure?"

"I shall never forget any," I said with a sad smile, "especially that of Mary."

Holmes looked away suddenly. "You remember too, the affair you entitled 'A Study in Scarlet' or some such foolishness?"

"Of course Holmes."

"And the affair of the Devil's Foot?"

"Yes, tonight was terribly close to—"

"And Reichenbach?"

"Yes Holmes, that case will always be a part of my memory so long as I live."

He was silent for a moment. "We've come through some very dark times, haven't we Watson?"

"Yes."

"We've been in some tight places, some dark places before, have we not?"

"Yes Holmes."

"And we've always survived."

"Yes."

"Except today. We almost didn't survive today. You were going to vacate our rooms; you were going to kill yourself. Dear Lord man if I hadn't seen and heard—it was through sheer willpower I over came that drug." He looked at the floor. "Do you have any idea what would have happened if I was too late?"

"Let's not think on it Holmes." I reached across the space and touched his hand. "We did survive, and that is what is important."

"It's this case Watson. For the first time in my career, I feel as though I am truly out of my depths."

His words and the tone in which he had spoke them sent a tendril of fear to enwrap my heart. "Don't say that Holmes! Please don't."

"We are fighting for so much more then a paltry disappearance of a priest. Can you not feel it?"

I could indeed.

"We are fighting for our very lives."

We were both silent, Holmes' words falling like leaden weights between us. After a time, I refilled both of our glasses, and a clock in London chimed the hour of three.

"The drug," he said, throwing off the morbidity of the moment, "is a very powerful one. It plays with the senses. What did you observe?"

I quickly told him all that I had seen.

"I was conscious of everything, I heard you sobbing, I heard you speaking to me. I felt you touch my hand. I heard you move to your desk and I heard the gun. I could think, I could hear I could feel. I felt such terror then Watson, knowing that I might not be able to stop you."

"You were conscious? Holmes it appeared as though you were dead. You had no pulse, you weren't breathing."

"But I was. Faintly. Not anything a physician would have discovered, I'm sure of it. And yet when you said my name I responded to you."

"You did?"

"I hadn't quite figured out how to navigate my nerve endings, but I tried hard to open my eyes. I indeed got them to flutter but you were planning your suicide. I truly believe if you had continued speaking to me, I would have been able to respond. Are you strong enough to try it again?"

"No."

"It could be the breakthrough we need to tie up the lose ends of this investigation. Please Watson, I beg of you."

I took a deep breath. The thought of potentially losing Holmes was too devastating. I knew I could deny him nothing and I equally knew I didn't, at that very moment, care if I died. The depression that had hit me earlier, clung strongly to me. "I'll do it." I said at length.

"Watson no I—"

"I can't go through that ordeal a second time," I confessed. "Besides, you are the scientist. If anyone should be checking for results, it should be you." To punctuate my words, I stripped out of my jacked and rolled up my shirtsleeve. I went to my medical bag and withdrew my scalpel. I made a small nick in the skin of my forearm which readily began to bleed. Holmes watched all of this from beneath deeply hooded eyes. I took my own pulse and respiration rhythm which Holmes took down and then I picked up the pestle.

"Watson you don't have to—"

"If we are fighting for our lives," I said with a grim smile, "then we must arm ourselves as best we can." I poured the powder onto the cut and returned the pestle to Holmes' bench.

The pain was not long in coming. Instantly, it felt as though my arm had been set ablaze from the inside. My very insides began to boil and bubble and I felt heat radiating from all parts of me. I heard my pulse roar in my ears, and was acutely aware of every minuscule action of my body. I literally felt the blood coursing through my veins and felt the thoughts formulate in my mind and then spring into life. My eyes were acute and I could see the very sweat standing out on my friend's pained and haggard face. I saw him reach out to me and I heard him call my name in a panicked tone.

Then, as though watching from outside my own body, I saw myself collapse on the floor and go deathly still. Holmes was at my side in an instant, with trembling hands undoing the buttons of my collar. I saw his lips move but they did not make a sound. His head was on my chest searching for some hint that I was breathing, and his trembling fingers attempted to take my pulse.

"Watson?" He asked, his voice thin. "Can you hear me?"

Feeling the nerve endings in my eyes, knowing how they worked, I follow the mental map of them in my head and blinked my eyes. Holmes must've seen this, for he sat back on his haunches and smiled.

"Good old Watson." He looked at me and furrowed his brow. "Stand up."

For some odd reason, it seemed as though my will was not my own. Against my own desire, I found myself on my knees and then fully standing.

"Can you speak?"

I tried to open my mouth but felt physically unable to do so.

"Walk into my bedroom and get my cherrywood pipe." He said.

Once again my will was not my own, and I did as he asked.

"Come back into the sitting room."

I obeyed.

How long we did such exercises I know not as all sense of time seemed to have left me. Suddenly, I felt a heaviness in my limbs and felt myself collapsing to the ground.

"Watson?"

My head felt extremely fogged and I blinked my eyes several times. "Holmes?"

"Ah good old fellow!" He clapped me on the shoulders and helped me to stand. The room inverted itself and I nearly fell again, but his strong arms were around me, keeping me upright. "You did well Watson."

"What happened?"

"What?"

"I felt—you were controlling me in some way Holmes. I can't quite describe what I mean but I just felt like…"

"That was all I needed to know. Come, sit, have a cigarette. I will share my findings with you."

I sat down and looked at my arm. I was alarmed to find a sizable burn there. "Holmes your arm!"

He looked at it. "Let me explain—"

"In a moment." I fetched my ever-ready black medical bag and treated both of our burns with military precision. When I had finished, Holmes looked at the bandages then at me.

"Are you quite finished?"

"Yes," I said when I resumed my chair.

"Do you remember the dragging footsteps we saw outside of the rectory? And by the grave that first night?"

"Yes, why?"

"Those footsteps were created by someone under the effects of Tetrodotoxin."

"However do you know that?"

"I took the liberty of examining your feet while you were walking to my room. You were dragging your feet."

"It didn't feel that way."

"No doubt," he replied. "But is conclusive just the same. Do you remember what Mason told us that first night when he said he had seen Father O'Brien?"

"Yes?"

"That combined with the workman's clothing we found in Father O'Brien's room is suggestive that it was he who was under the drug's influence."

"Holmes that's brilliant."

"Elementary. It will be confirmed when I hear back from Father Doyle or Michaels."

"When did you speak to them?"

"I sent a telegram when you were tending to your patients."

"Asking what?"

"You'll find out as soon as the telegram is received." He had a mysterious twinkle in his eyes. "Our net is tightening my dear fellow. Just a few more loose ends."

"A few? Holmes there are so many unanswered questions."

"You must do me a favor Watson, as you are more familiar with the family then I." "Anything."

"Find out the connection between the Southerland Family and Father O'Brien."

"I didn't think there was a connection."

"He did say the Mass…"'

"Yes, but—"

"Even still Watson. And I am, my dear fellow, going out for awhile."

I looked at my watch. "Holmes, it is seven o'clock in the morning."

"Nothing like an early start."

"You didn't sleep at all last night. You put your body through a great deal—"

"Watson—"

"Please Holmes?"

He hesitated for a few moments and then sighed in resignation. "Very well Watson. I don't suppose a few hours will hurt."

"Thank you old boy."

We both retired to our rooms. I fell into my bed and drew the covers up to my chin. The events of the night weighed heavily on my mind and the strange depression continued to linger. I fell, eventually, into a fitful sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

**A lighter chapter then some of the previous ones I've posted. Please let me know what you think by R&R. **

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><p>When I awoke some time later to find the sun shining brightly through my windows. I stretched, and for the first time in ages, refreshed. My mind was blissfully clear until I swung my legs off the side of my bed and memories of the previous night assaulted me at a dizzying pace. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Yesterday was a day spent in Hell. Things could not grow darker.<p>

I dressed quickly and walked into the sitting room where I found a hastily written note from Holmes informing me that he would be out all day. I refilled my medical bag and set off on my rounds, ensure I saw Mrs. Southerland last. My rounds took the majority of the day, and I was extremely glad to see a marked improvement in many of my patients. My heart soared when I was able to bring a young girl of three back from the edge of death by successfully combating her fever. It was eight o'clock in the evening when I arrived at the Southerland home.

"Ah Doctor Watson," the girl said opening the door. "You'll find Mr. and Mrs. Southerland in the drawing room."

I smiled at hearing that and made my way into the comfortable drawing room.

"Doctor Watson!" Mr. Southerland said, rising to greet me. "Here, let Ruth take your coat and your hat. Sit down, you look exhausted."

Before I could say anything, a glass of brandy was in my hand. "Thank you both for your hospitality."

"Thank you Doctor," Mrs. Southerland said, "for your excellent medical care."

I smiled a smile I did not feel. "You are much improved then Mrs. Southerland?"

"Yes Doctor Watson, and it is all thanks to you."

"I'm just glad to see such an improvement."

"But when brings you to our home Doctor Watson?"

"I wanted to see how your wife was fairing, and I also wanted to ask you a few questions regarding my investigation with Sherlock Holmes."

"Has he found—" He stopped speaking when he saw me looking at his wife. "Would you excuse us for a few moments dearest? I must speak with Doctor Watson about something quite pressing."

"Surely I can hear it?" She asked.

"No, it is nothing that concerns you," I said with a small smile. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is conducting an investigation and I have some questions to ask him."

"Is my husband in trouble?"

"No dearest," Mr. Southerland said. "I just need some time to speak with Doctor Watson, that is all."

After hesitating for a moment, Mrs. Southerland took her leave. When we were alone, Mr. Southerland faced me with fire in his eyes. "Has he found my daughters yet?"

I shook my head in the negative. "No, but he is very close."

"Very close? That is supposed to comfort me? How would you like if your child died and someone said he was very close to saving him? Or better yet, of finding him?"

I closed my eyes against the stabbing pain that went through my breast. I knew how that felt, I knew the pain of that grief all too well.

"Doctor Watson?" Anger was gone, replaced by concern.

"I know how you grieve, I can assure you of that sir," I said in my best professional tone. "And I know how upsetting this news is. However, I beg of you to speak to me for a few moments so that we may help my friend locate your children."

Mr. Southerland nodded. "How may I be of service?"

"Do you know Father O'Brien?"

Mr. Southerland nodded. "He is our priest Doctor Watson. A good priest at that, he has been a great comfort to my family in our time of need."

"I am glad to hear you say so. How well do you know him?"

"Quite well. He's been my confessor for years."

"Has he ever been…odd to you?"

Mr. Southerland raised his eyebrows. "No sir. Whenever he came here, he was always very polite, very sociable. The girls loved him. He liked getting into deep religious discussions with us, although we're no clergy. I didn't understand some of the things he used to say."

"Such as?"

"Oh all kinds of queer things Doctor. He'd talk about life after death, about reversing death if we could. All kinds of nonsense like that. We'd like him talk, we used to like to hear him, even though I couldn't begin to comprehend his words."

"Anything else?"

He thought for several minutes and then looked at me queerly. "There is one thing Doctor. It was said a long time ago, but it struck me as singular."

"I would be glad to hear it."

"He said he and a young student of his were working on something that could, possibly, eradicate death but still save the soul. A way to cleanse the soul after death to ensure it went to Heaven. This was not for mortal sinners of course, you must understand. This was mostly for children who died with sins upon them without having meant to sin. It was queer and confusing and I do not recall the details."

"That is singular. Did he say who the student was?"

"I think he referred to him by name but I can't be sure."

"Perhaps if I tell you a name?"

"You can try Doctor. I don't know whether or not it will be successful."

"Jack?"

Mr. Southerland thought for several minutes and then nodded. "Jackie. That was the name! How do you know that?"

"Just a simple line of inquiry. Do you know if your governess knew him?"

"Oh yes, she did. She was very fond of him. They used to go for walks together to discuss God. She was a gentle soul and I'm very saddened to hear of her passing."

"Is there anything else Mr. Southerland?"

"Not that I can think of Doctor Watson."

"I bid you thanks and will take my leave."

He got my hat and coat and showed me to the door. "Thank you again Doctor Watson. Please do let me know when you hear."

"Of course Mr. Southerland."

I thought the data interesting and send my findings to Holmes at the telegram office. I then hailed a hansom and took a twenty-minute cab ride to the outskirts of town. I paid the driver and walked into the cemetery. I walked for some time until I found a gravestone with the name "Watson" engraved upon it. I touched the stone and hung my head. "Oh Mary," I said wretchedly. I closed my eyes against the grief. "Mary I am so sorry."

I know not how long I stood there, wrapped in my own thoughts and grief, but I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Forgive me Watson," came the cool voice of Sherlock Holmes, "I did not mean to frighten you."

"However did you find me?"

He smiled in the light of his dark lantern. "When you did not come home and merely sent your findings to me via telegram, it informed me that you were not coming home. If you were with a patient, you would have included that as well. I knew you were not at your club, because the telegram came from an office boy, not one associated with your establishment. Such a thing told me you did not want to be found."

"That is true."

"From what you've told me yesterday," his eyes flickered to the headstone, "where else would my Watson, who has been grieving as of late, disappear to at this hour of the night, without telling me where he has gone, in search of some sort of solace? Why to spend time with his wife and child of course. It was a simple deduction."

"I wish you hadn't deduced it Holmes," I said once again facing the head stone.

"You are upset that I have come?" There was hurt in his voice.

I shook my head. "No Holmes I just…I needed to clear my head. Mary has always helped me to do that in life. I had hoped, in her death, she would be just as successful."

"And was she?"

"Yes," I said to him.

"Good. Oh, I thought this might be welcome," he pulled from behind his back four roses, two of which he handed to me. "I don't visit graves often, but a mark of gratitude then, would be appropriate I think."

I swallowed hard against the midst that had formed in my eyes and so thoughtful a gesture from my friend. "I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing," he flashed me a smile and then bent down to place the flowers in the dirt beneath the headstone. "One for each of them." He stood and touched the granite. He closed his eyes for a few moments and then opened them. "I will be at the entrance," he said, "finding a cab." He handed me the dark lantern and made his way out of sight.

I stood standing before my wife's grave holding the flowers for some moments. I bent down and positioned the roses next to Holmes'. I allowed my lips to brush the cold stone. "I love you," I said softly, "both of you." For fear that I would cry, I turned on my heel and exited the graveyard to find Holmes standing with a hansom.

"Ready?" He asked and offered me a hand up. When I had gotten in the cab, he gave the cabbie the address: "Baker Street, 221B."

We sat in silence for some moments then Holmes, uncharacteristically touched my knee. "I did not mean to intrude. I only thought—"

"The gesture was much appreciated, I can assure you."

"And yet you're silent?"

"Bone weary Holmes," I said with a smile. "I'm bone weary. Every turn in this blasted affair seems to pierce my heart. I don't know how much more I can take." The weight of grief was quite literally crushing me beneath her heal.

"You will be pleased then," Holmes said softly, "this affair is almost ended. I feel things will come to a head over the next couple of days."

"I am glad to hear you say so."

"I do not know," he said gravely, "for the first time in my career, what the outcome will be. Whether for good or ill, will I at least have my Watson at my side?"

"Of course Holmes." His words chilled me to the core. "But of course."

The rest of the ride to Baker Street was in tense silence. When we returned to our rooms, I was surprised to find my friend covered grass and dirt. "What have you done?"

"I've been at the rectory, I've been at the docks. I've even been at the Diogenese Club," he said. He removed his greatcoat and tossed it on the settee. He grabbed his black briar pipe from the mantle, filled it with tobacco and started to smoke. "Did you know that Mason is a smoker?"

I shook my head in the negative.

"Did you know his son was a smoker?"

"No."

"Were you aware that the Turkish blend with mint is a very rare cigarette to find in London?"

"Yes, I believe that Mortimer said—"

"I found traces of that ash in Mason's home this afternoon."

"What? You were with Mason?"

"No, my dear fellow, I was in his house." For emphasis, he removed his lock picking kit and placed it on the settee.

"It still doesn't tell us anything."

"No, but it is suggestive."

"How do you know about Jack?"

"Ah this is where it gets a bit more tricky. You said you went to the East End did you not?"

"Yes I did Holmes."

"And yet you found no mixture of Turkish blend mixed with mint?"

"I can't say I did."

"Ah Watson you see but you do not observe. There was that blend of ash in no less then three pubs in the East End. The only thing that tied the together was they were accompanied by a pair of hobnailed boots."

"What is so suggestive about that?"

"In a moment Watson. I followed the boots to the docks in the East End and I inquired about a six foot tall, lean man who had a penchant for expensive tobacco."

"You judged his height no doubt by the length of his stride, and you his weight by how deeply he sunk into mud?"

"Very good Watson. You are really improving all the time! The fellow pointed me towards a shipyard in the most disreputable part of town where I met young master Jack face to face."

"He exists then?"

"Yes, he exists. He is, as his friend that you met, a carpenter. Who has worked on many West End homes, including, my dear fellow, the Southerland home."

"What?" I ejaculated.

"He and his friend Ebenezer—"

"Mr. Southerland didn't say—"

"I doubt he thought it was significant old fellow. If fact, I highly doubted he knew the fellow's name who did the work on his home."

"When was the work done?"

Holmes' eyes lit fire. "Some weeks ago. When did the girls get sick?"

I closed my eyes. "Some two weeks ago."

"I think we have the cause of your illness Watson."

"Yes but that still doesn't explain—"

"It will Watson. Jack has also done work in the rectory—"

"Father Michaels never mentioned—"

"I do not think Father Michaels meant deception."

"Then what does it all mean?"

"You will be interested to know, Watson, that I found the round toed shoes that were in the cemetery that night."

"Wherever did you—"

"The back of the rectory basement, behind a large wood pile. Next to it, was the same tobacco ash."

"Holmes this still doesn't make any sense."

"The shoes were the same size as the ones in Father O'Brien's wardrobe."

"Holmes!"

"What?"

"None of this makes sense!"

"Does it not?"

"What of the strange symbols? The odd behavior of you and Mrs. Southerland? The blood. The threats?"

His face darkened. "Have you ever heard of the act of necromancy?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Surely Holmes, you have gone mad."

He shook his head sadly. "Not mad Doctor Watson. Not mad. I consulted Mycroft this afternoon. I had another incident…I don't know how to describe it."

"Tell me about it Holmes."

"I was in Baker Street and then the next thing I knew, I was in a cab. I was headed to the rectory and I couldn't recall how I'd gotten there. I did not alight from the cab as I had already visited, and I went to the Diogenese Club instead. You know my brother is more astute then I and I had no doubt he would give me some guidance when my own mind is somewhat compromised.

'When I told him of the symbols and the evidence, his face got very pale. He handed me a book, the one that is on the table, and wished me God's speed. I consulted it and it seems as though the perpetrator in this affair is attempting necromancy."

"Holmes you cannot simply bring someone back from the dead that is impossible."

"Isn't that what Father O'Brien wanted to do? And Jack?"

"Yes but Holmes—"

"Tetrodotoxin is used in the West Indies to make it look like someone is being brought back to life. It is an old trick and one that is very powerful."

"But why the Southerland girls and my patients?"

"According to—"

"Holmes this is insane! This entire idea defies logic! Surely you, of all people, realize that."

There was a sad smile on his face. "Oh Watson, believe me, I do."


	19. Chapter 19

**The end looms near. A bit more play between Holmes, Watson and Holmes' alter self. Hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think by R&R!**

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><p>"And you think what? Jack is involved and Mason and Father Michaels and my patients for God's sake and—"<p>

"Watson." His tone of voice once again shifted to that hollow grating sound. The very sound of it filled my heart with terror.

"Holmes?"

"You mean to tell me you'd never thought of bringing people back from the dead?"

"No Holmes, never. It is illogical and—"

"What about Mary?" There was a mocking quality in his voice and filled me with dread. "What about little Sherlock? Don't you wish you could have held him in your arms? Kissed him? Played with him?"

"Holmes, don't do this."

"You never wondered what he'd look like? If he'd look like you or Mary? Didn't you wonder that after he died?"

I swallowed. "Holmes, I beg of you."

"You would have had a real family. People who loved you, respected you. You always wanted that, didn't you Watson? Wanted a wife and son to come home to?"

"Holmes please, I beg of you stop this."

"Stop what Watson? Didn't your wife beg you not to let her die? And you did anyway, despite what she asked. Didn't you wish, after she closed her eyes for the last time, that you could somehow make her reopen them? Didn't you?" He paused for breath. "How many nights did you stay awake begging God to kill you so you could join them?"

"Holmes please."

"Didn't you almost kill yourself last night? What prompted that Doctor Watson, guilt of watching me die or guilt of killing your unborn child and wife? How easy was it to pick up the gun Doctor Watson? Wasn't it strangely liberating then, to know what power you had over your own life? To know just how and when you'd die? Can't you get drunk on that kind of power Watson? Wouldn't it be nice to be free from pain, free from sin, free from guilt? I know how guilt ridden you are Doctor Watson. I can see inside your very soul."

Against my own desires, tears escaped my eyes. "Stay away from me."

"I can see you Doctor Watson I can see the guilt gnawing away at you. You're dying don't you know? Dying slowly from a broken heart. I can see the cracks, I can see the pain and I can tell you are not long for this world despite what you think. So do it Watson, pick up the gun and shoot yourself. Save me the trouble of having to live out my life with you by my side."

"You're not Holmes," I said, my voice trembling. "And I shan't listen to a word you say."

"Oh but I am Doctor Watson. I'm Holmes' inner voice, those dark thoughts he would never share with you or the world. I'm his very soul."

"No." I shook my head. "I know Holmes."

"Do you? Do you truly believe he cares for you? Do you truly believe he doesn't hate you? Do you truly believe he doesn't think you murdered your wife and child? Do you truly believe he doesn't think you're a failure as a man, a friend, a biographer, a physician, a husband, a father and a solider? You don't know him the way you think you do Watson. I know him."

"He would never think—"

"Oh, but he does. He hates you Doctor Watson, he just will not admit how much. He thinks his life was better before he met you. He wishes you'd die and leave him in peace. Surely you must sense that sometimes, don't you? Don't you sense his hatred from across the room, but you're too ignorant to admit it?"

"For God's sake please stop."  
>"For God's sake? Oh please Doctor, God isn't here!"<p>

"But I am," I countered.

"Yes for all the worthless good that will do."

"I will not let you harm my friend."

"You cannot stop me. I am your friend. You will soon learn to see it. Mark my words."

I squeezed my eyes shut and felt my body start to tremble. The words hurt my very soul, despite my efforts to not let them.

"Watson?"

"Please say no more! I do not want to hear anything further."

"Watson what happened?"

"Please, why are you tormenting me? For God's sake why are you tormenting me?"

I felt hands on my shoulders. "Watson, old fellow, what's wrong?"

I opened my eyes and looked into the clear, lucid ones of my dearest friend. I gripped his shoulders tightly. "Holmes, thank God."

His eyes questioned what happened and I painfully told him. When I finished he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with his hands. "I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything."

"I don't feel that way," he said at length. "Please tell me you know that."

My hesitation pained him, but I shook my head in the negative. "You must understand Holmes. You say these things in your own voice with a hollow quality to it. They're your eyes I look into, not those of a stranger. I know it's not you, but at the same time, Holmes…"

"I understand," he nodded. "I more then understand. However, I give you my word, no such thought has ever been in my breast. You are my dearest friend—you are my only friend."

I smiled at him then. "The more I think, the more I believe there is some element of truth to what you say."

"I think," Holmes said, "you will find, if you would allow me to telegram your client, that they had hired young Jack from their employ."

"I would think Southerland would have mentioned that."

"Did you ask him?"

"Well…no."

"May I telegram your client?"

"By all means."

Holmes wrote out a telegram and sent it with the boy after giving him a sous. "That hypothesis will so be confirmed."

"Why do you believe Jack was fired?"

"I will not theorize at present," Holmes said, his eyes twinkling. "However, I will say, if my hypothesis is correct, we will know why your patients were targeted."

I sat back in my chair. "Holmes?"

"Yes Watson?"

I swallowed hard. "I am a medical man, and a good one at that."

"I never doubted your abilities."

"I am a man of science, as you are. And yet, I'm wondering if Father Michaels was correct after all."

"In what regard?"

"Have we unleashed something unholy?"

Some trick of light made Holmes' lips seem unsteady. "That is more Father Michaels' area of study." He looked at me and got up suddenly. He walked over to his violin and lifted it from where it rested. "Would you mind?"

"I would like that very much Holmes." I settled into my chair and closed my eyes, allowing myself to be transported into peace by Holmes' playing.

It was a dark, melancholy piece, one that was undoubtedly one of my friend's own creations. He played for hours, his moods reflected in each piece he composed. I was content listening to his music when my illusion was shattered by the peeling of the bell.

"I'll go," I said. I rose from my chair and answered the door. It was a boy with a telegram.

"Two for Mr. 'Olmes," he said handing me the envelops. I paid the boy two sous and then returned to the sitting room.

"Holmes, these are for you."

He set his violin down and opened them both. "My theory is correct," he said. "Your man Southerland did fire his carpenter for being drunk on the job."

"Meaning what exactly."

"Retribution Watson," he said with a small smile. "One will go to any lengths…" He opened the other and raised his eyebrows. "Quickly, on with your coat. Take your revolver and be ready. We shall end this nasty business tonight."

"But Holmes, I don't understand how any of this makes sense."

"You will, before the night is out."

I hurried into my coat and picked up my revolver. I opened the gun and loaded cartridges. Closing it, I hurried after my friend. We entered the street and Holmes ran ahead of me to secure a hansom. It had started to rain, a bitter cold rain that chilled to the bone the moment it made contact—the sort of weather that pained my old war wound. Although I tried, my leg prevented me from keeping up with Holmes.

"Go ahead Holmes," I said when I approached him and the hansom. "I'll slow you down."

"I started this with my trusty Boswell, and we shall finish it together. Come along Watson, the game is afoot!"

He helped me into the cab and we started off on another adventure.

"Where are we going?"

"The cemetery, more precisely the rectory, where we are meeting Father Michaels and Father Doyle."

"Does anyone know we're coming?"

"Oh yes, Doctor Watson. We're waiting for you."

"Holmes!"

"What did you ask me?"

I told him what had happened.

"I didn't think we wouldn't be expected Watson. They seem to have eyes everywhere."

It was a silent trip, a mutual feeling of fear and trepidation passed between us.


	20. Chapter 20

**Things are finally coming to a head for our two boys. Unfortunately our dear Watson still has to endure. Please let me know what you think by R&R. Thanks!**

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><p>When we alighted from the cab, Holmes walked us to the back of the rectory, where he knocked on the door twice. It opened a fraction of an inch and Holmes and I stepped inside. Holmes closed the door, and we were plunged into total darkness. His hand was at my mouth in an instant, stopping me from speaking. We stood for several moments in complete silence; the only sound the faint creak of a stairs and the shuffling of shoes.<p>

"Mr. Holmes?" The voice was harsh and grating, an element of terror in it.

Suddenly, Holmes' hand was away from my mouth and I heard him strike a match. It did little to disperse the gloom.

"Ah, Father Doyle, you may light the lamp. Is Father Michaels with you?"

Another match and the room was illuminated by a dark lantern. I saw the terrified expressions of both priests.

"Keep your voices pitched low," he said in a whisper that I could barely hear. "What do you know?"

Father Doyle stepped forward. "Mason came up to us tonight and told us if we loved God we would remain in His house, no matter what we heard or saw."

"Did he say why?"

The older priest shook his head and stepped closer to the light. "He told us, no matter what happened, we would come to no harm."

"And where is he now?"

"I don't know Doctor," the Irish brogue which I had heard some days previous in Father Doyle's voice was more pronounced and tinged with fear. "I haven't gone to his home—"

"A very wise decision," Holmes said. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Watson, I trust you are well prepared?"

I removed my revolver and held it out to my friend. Both priests gasped.

"A gun Doctor Watson?" Father Michaels asked.

"It is always good to have precautions," my friend replied.

"But to take someone's life—"

"Father Michaels," Holmes said. "In times of danger, where I am risking my life and that of my friend, to come to the aid of a client, I care not for my immortal soul, nor does Watson care for his."

That part was not completely true but I knew better then to disagree.

"We will do what we need to do to protect you and to protect ourselves. Do you understand me Father?"

Father Michaels nodded and crossed himself. "Yes Mr. Holmes."

"Now, what is in that bag?" He indicated a small bag next to Father Doyle's leg.

"Our tools Mr. Holmes." He opened the bag and we saw a crucifix, a purple stole, a bottle of holy water and a small bible.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "And how is that going to help us?"

"If you have, unwittingly, released the devil Mr. Holmes, this will save us all."

Holmes raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"It will not trouble you Mr. Holmes," he said quickly. "And if you do not mind, it does give us some comfort, as your revolver gives you."

"And you are certain you wish to come?"

"This is our rectory Mr. Holmes and our church. Our flock comes here for worship and solstice. We are prepared to defend it against any evil that comes near." For emphasis, Father Michaels kissed the crucifix he wore.

Holmes nodded. "We will proceed in complete darkness without even the hint of a dark lantern."

"How will we see?"

"As you say, this is your church. I would that that should also apply to your cemetery as well. Watson, are you ready?"

"Yes Holmes."

He flashed me a shaky smile. "Good old Watson. You may extinguish the lamp."

With a nervous glance at one another, the priests shuttered the dark lantern, plunging us into darkness.

Holmes opened the door and we slipped out into the raging gale. I immediately turned up the collar of my jacket to keep the icy water from running down my back. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my leg and did my best to keep up with my friend's brisk pace. The moon was not out, as dark clouds covered it, and we had no light to lead us. However, Holmes had a keen sense of sight in the dark and I had no doubt he was leading us in the correct direction.

After some time, we stopped, all of us straining our ears to hear any sound. Holmes' lips were at my ear. "You observe we are at Mason's home, and yet he is not."

I looked into the darkness and did indeed see the house.

He pulled something from his pocket and walked towards it. In a moment, the door was opened and my friend stepped in. We followed him and were all standing in the sparse room of the groundskeeper.

Holmes picked something up and I heard the striking of a match. He had lit half a candle and was peering about the room.

"He was here some time ago," he said bending low to pick something off the floor. "He smoked. He was not alone. I feel Jack was with him."

"Jack!" Father Michaels ejaculated. "You've found him?"

"Oh yes," Holmes replied ominously. "I feel that you shall be reunited with him tonight."

Holmes proceeded to look around the room and found something of interest. "Ah! Watson come here."

I did as he asked and I saw him bending over a small vial of white powder. The top was off and some of the contents were on the floor. "What is that?"

"Do you not recognize it?" He asked incredulously. "When we had such a time with it the other evening?"

"Tetrodotoxin!" I said.

"Precisely Watson," he said darkly. "This is not a full vial. He has been experimenting." He then picked up another one on the floor. "And doing so heavily."

"Be careful Holmes," I said, the events around such a drug were still painful in my memory.

"I don't plan on touching it, have no fear. It is singular though."

He replaced the vials and smiled grimly. "That is the proof we need that he is involved with Father O'Brien's disappearance."

"Why Father O'Brien?" Father Doyle asked.

"He was interested in outré things, you said so yourself. Including Satanic worship, or so his journal states. I believe Mason found a kindred spirit in him, but when he started to notice things were more then mere speculation, he tried to save Jack from his father."

"But how—"

"I've heard that Father O'Brien was convinced that dear Jack was possessed by the devil. That Jack started going about raving about things he was seeing. They spent long hours together," Holmes said. "And then, Father O'Brien goes missing shortly after Jack does. You do not find it singular?"

"A coincidence surely," said Father Michaels.

"You will learn, Father Michaels, there is no such thing."

"And the Southerland girls?"

"Jack was fired from the employ of the master of the house."

"So?"  
>"As I said before retribution—"<p>

"They died of a fever and influenza Holmes. I am their physician I know. I signed the death certificate."

"I believe they were—"

I felt my temper rise. "I will not have my medical opinion questioned by you." A dam I did not know I had built suddenly opened and the anger and frustration I had felt over the past week finally came out. "I have heard from you, far too often, that I have failed as a physician. I have not!" I shook my head angrily. "I have not."

"Watson, I did not mean to suggest—I've never said—"

"Don't!" Suddenly it was as though something dark came over my mind, filling it with the most intensely dark thoughts. "I've heard in just how high a regard you hold me. How I've failed. Well I haven't Holmes. I did not fail my wife, I did not fail my child and I did not fail those girls. And I did not fail you at Reichenbach!"

He was silent for a moment. He placed a hand on my shoulder stemming my rage. "I do not believe you have failed me Watson, I never have believed that. Surely as we are friends, you must believe that. I know things have been said in the past several days that have hurt you, but I cannot have you like this now. Too much depends on our strong partnership. I need you."

My mind locked onto his voice and I closed my eyes. "I don't know what came over me."

He patted my shoulder. "You will soon see."

"Holmes I—"

"I did not mean to imply that I doubted your medical opinion Doctor," he favored me with a small smile. "I simply mean I believe the pathogen was given to that family. Disease kills children more quickly, does it not?"

"Yes."

"Someone could, have then, in effect, transmitted the illness to the children, and from what you say, the disease progresses rapidly."

"Yes but we have no proof Holmes!"

"No," he said with a sad smile. "That is merely a theory. But given the evidence surrounding it, I feel it is the best theory we have."

"But then why dig up their graves?"

A dark expression came into his eyes. "That will be made clear soon enough my dear fellow."

A hand of ice wrapped itself around my heart.

Suddenly, he grabbed my chin and forced my to look into his steel colored eyes. "I do not know," he said softly, "what will happen to us. What we are dealing with is more powerful then I first imagined. I have some scruples taking you tonight."

"I will be by your side Holmes, always."

"Things will happen," he continued. "I do not know whether or not they will hurt you. Whatever happens, you must not doubt my affection for you, do you hear me? Whatever you hear, whatever you see, you must not doubt the fact that I hold you in the highest regard."

Such an expression from a self contained man like Sherlock Holmes chilled me to the core.

"I thought your wife was an ideal specimen of a woman, clever and kind. I said as much to you during the Agra treasure, do you not remember?"

"Yes Holmes."

"You would have been a fine father Watson."

"Holmes—"

"I feel this way. Keep that in mind as we do battle with the devil himself tonight." He let go of my chin and clapped me on the back. "Come now, there is work to be done!"

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes Father Michaels?"

He handed Holmes and I simple chains with crucifixes on them. "They will keep you safe."

With trembling fingers, I fastened mine around my neck. It felt strange, as I had never worn such an artifact.

"Please Mr. Holmes," the priest said when he hesitated.

"I do not need—"

"It'll ease our minds, even if you do not believe."

Holmes nodded and fastened the chain around his neck. He favored me with an ironic smile. "Do you feel more equipped Watson?"

I did not answer, as I didn't feel he needed to make the priests appear ridiculous.

He blew out the candle and pulled me behind him. "Make not a sound," he said to us. "You," he said to the priests, stay out of sight. Until you know otherwise."

"How will we know?"

"You will."

We once again stepped out into the frigid rain and proceeded to walk some easy distance. Suddenly, Holmes stopped when we saw a greenish light glowing some feet before us. Even over the gale I could hear a kind of eerie chant echoing in the night.

We walked onward, and Holmes gestured to the two priests to hid between gravestones just within earshot. Holmes and I pressed forward and I stopped dead when I eventually saw the sight before me. A grave was opened and green light was emitting from there. I saw Mason with a staff raised above it. To his right were the bodies of my patients and to his left was a strapping young man, his eyes fixed on the glowing light. Behind him, was a tall man, bloodied, wearing a priest's garment. His eyes held a dead, lifeless expression. Behind me, I heard the two priests mutter prayers.

"Ah Mr. Holmes," Mason said. "I have been expecting you."

"Mr. Mason," my friend said coolly.

"Have you enjoyed the little game we've been playing with you? What is it like having your friend hear your innermost thoughts?"

"I would not know Mr. Mason," Holmes replied. "Whatever thoughts you claim I said were placed there by you."

"The Devil knows all Mr. Holmes."

"If one were to believe in a devil."  
>"Oh but you should Mr. Holmes. Your friends certainly do. I'm surprised you didn't bring them along. I would think they'd want to battle Satan."<p>

"You've committed murder."

"Oh, the girls?"

"And Ms. Granger."

"A trifling thing really. Father O'Brien was fond of them, but their parents sinned grievously by firing my son. Jackie and I are going to bring them back to life to save them from the sins of their parents."

"Is that Father O'Brien there?"

"Yes, he does my heavy work. He doesn't seem to mind though."

"Tetrodotoxin is a strong drug."  
>Mason was genuinely surprised. "You discovered it?"<p>

"Yes. When you had a Datura staff it lends itself to some speculation. Doctor Watson agreed that the effects you had so described to us in addition to the footprints left behind, indicated a drug of some kind. Tetrodotoxin came with research."

"And how did you know it was me?"

"The evidence all pointed to you Mason. And when a man carelessly leaves his thumb print on evidence, and then the thumb impression can be see in candle wax in your own home, the evidence is telling."

"Sounds as though you summed that up nicely Mr. Holmes. You live up to your reputation."

"Yes."

The two men stood staring at one another.

"You do speak for too long though Mr. Holmes."

To emphasize his words, two arms grabbed me roughly by the chest, rendering me immobile. Holmes too, was in a stronghold. I was so focused on Holmes that I hadn't noticed Father O'Brien and Jack had moved from their position.

"Now Mr. Holmes, let me show you my power."

"You have no power Mr. Mason. It is all smoke and mirrors."  
>"Oh Mr. Holmes, how little you know; how little you understand."<p>

The grip on my chest was stronger.

Mason began to chant and suddenly, the green midst began to swarm over us, thickly, as though it was a dense London fog. I lost all since of time in such a fog and suddenly it started to shift and meld into shapes.

"John?"

I gasped at the sound. It was a voice I hadn't heard for a very long time.

"John dearest, is that really you?"

Suddenly, out of the midst came my wife carrying something in her arms. It was as though I remembered her in life, healthy and vibrant. The hold of my chest loosened and I found myself walking towards her. Words escaped me at the moment, rational thought disappeared and all I knew was I was seeing the woman I so dearly loved once again.

"Mary."

"Would you like to see our son?"  
>"What?"<p>

She outstretch her hand and I saw a baby boy looking up at me. He looked healthy and vibrant. I felt tears stand out in my eyes.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John," she said. Her hand reached forward and touched my cheek. It was warm and living. "Here," she said, handing me my son, the son I never had the chance to hold.

I felt the weight of him in my arms, something I had always longed to feel, and held him to my breast. I began sobbing in earnest. He giggled and clutched my coat in his tiny fingers. I held his hand, and watched in amazement as his tiny hand gripped my finger. "Sherlock," I whispered.

"Don't cry John," Mary said, throwing her arms around me. "Please don't cry."

"You died," I sobbed. "You both died."

"We didn't," she whispered in my ear. "We've always been here with you. You've just never thought to see us or look for us."

"How can that be? I was with you when—"

"Shh," she said, her finger touching my lips. "Don't think about that now. Don't think of anything right now. Just be with us." She kissed me then, and I felt her mouth on mine, a feeling I longed more then anything to once again experience. "Play with our son John."

I picked my child up and held him above my head. I brought him down slowly and kissed his face, his hands. I couldn't stop the tears from rushing down my cheeks.

"You can stay with us John. Do you want that?"

"More then anything?"

"All you have to do—"

Her voice was cut off by a blood curdling scream. I knew that scream. It was Holmes!  
>"Holmes!" I shouted.<p>

"Oh no, don't say that." Mary's voice was harsh. "Don't think of going back to him now. Stay with us."

"He's in trouble."

"You should be glad John," she said, with a hint of ice in her voice, I had never heard before. "Why should your run to his aid as you have so many times when we were married? You didn't know I was dying because you cared for him!"

"Mary I—"

"Do you deny it?"

I shook my head in the negative.

"Then prove your love for me and for our son. Stay here, with us."

Another scream shot through the air, chilling my bones. "I can't—"

"You never loved me then."

"Mary don't say that!"

"Then stay with me, forever John. Watch your son grow. Love us the way we have always loved you. Forget Sherlock Holmes."

Suddenly my heart turned to ice. "You would never say that."

"What?"

"You're not my wife. Mary would never say that. She held him in a high regard. She would never—"

"Do you know that for fact John? How can I not be your wife? I'm standing here in front of you."

"Watson!" It was a strangled cry. A cry for help like I've never heard from him. "Watson! NO!"

"Don't listen John. He has already said how much he hates you. How much he hated our family. Stay with me. Stay with us."

I looked down at the giggling boy in my arms, and I did have the strongest desire to succumb to the strange world I had suddenly found myself in. I was with my wife and my child. I loved them more than anything in the world and missed them severely.

"Watson! No! Watson! I'm sorry!"

"Stay John. I love you."

"I love you too," I whispered, my tears falling heavily. "God how much I love you." I looked at my son. "I love you both."

She extended her hand to me. "Then take my hand. Stay with us forever."

I extended my hand out to her, but stopped when Holmes' voice entered my mind_. I do not know whether or not they will hurt you. Whatever happens, you must not doubt my affection for you, do you hear me? Whatever you hear, whatever you see, you must not doubt the fact that I hold you in the highest regard…_ _I thought your wife was an ideal specimen of a woman, clever and kind. You would have been a fine father Watson._

"Watson! No!"

I pulled my hand back. _I will be at your side Holmes, always. _"I can't. He needs me."

"Yes John, run to him like you've always done. We mean nothing to you compared to him."

"No," I cried. "That's not true. You know that's not true."

My son began to cry and I held him tighter. "No Sherlock," I whispered to him. "Don't cry. Daddy's here." I began to sob with him. "Daddy's here."

He looked up at me and reached two hands towards my face. I bent my face lower and let him touch my chin.

"See how much he loves you John? We both love and need you."

"Watson, I'm sorry! Don't I beg of you don't!"

"My dear John."

"Watson!"

I felt my thoughts begin to spiral out of control. Never in my life have I been so conflicted. My dearest friend needed me desperately and yet could I really leave my son and wife after everything he had said to me? I was with two people who loved me more than the wide world.

"John?"

Suddenly, I heard sobbing. "Watson no! I didn't mean—Watson!"

Something in my mind suddenly snapped at hearing such pain in my voice. I slowly kissed my son and handed back to my wife. I kissed her lips, touched her cheek and then began to back away.

"John?"

"I must go to him."

"I thought you loved me! You never loved me!"

"I did," I said when I felt some of my senses come back to me.

"Watson I didn't mean that! I swear I didn't!"

"I loved you when you were alive. I love you still. My son never made it into this world, but he is as much a part of my heart as you are."

"How can we not be alive John? You can touch us."

"Watson!"

I fell to my knees and began to sob in earnest. I couldn't stop the conflicting thoughts.

"John?" Her voice was tender and soft. "John."

Something in the tone was different then Mary's. Although it was gentle, there was a layer of ice underneath it, an ice that was not my Mary. The realization hit me suddenly.

"Get away from me," the words tore my heart apart even as I said them. "Go back from where you came. Please go back."

"John how can you say that?"

"I buried you!" I screamed. "I buried you! I buried both of you! I feel the agony of that funeral each waking second!"

"But John, we're here now and—"

"Get away from me."

"But you love me."

I stared at her hard for the first time and I saw she didn't look exactly like my wife. Something in her eyes was different. I had been too overcome with emotion to see it before.

"I don't love you." I said, my voice harsh. As I said the words, my soul seemed to rip out of my body. My heart shattered in a thousand pieces as I stared at the image of my dead wife holding my child to her breast. "I don't love either one of you."

"John?"

"I hate you!"

Suddenly her eyes turned red and she lunged at me with full force. Before I could react, her nails dug painfully into my arm.

"You can't hate me. I'm part of you!"

"My wife was part of me! My son! Not you!"

She grabbed at my throat and then pulled back in agony. Her hand had touched the cross Father Michaels had given me. I grabbed the crucifix from my neck, breaking the chain, and held it in front of me.

"Go back to the hell from whence you came!"  
>Suddenly the green midst disappeared but I couldn't find Holmes. I saw Mason standing over the open grave with his staff. I knew, on some level, I needed to get the staff from him and break it. It had magical properties I remember Holmes saying. I needed to get it away from him. I rushed over to him and tackled him in full ruby fashion. We both went crashing to the ground. Jack was on me in an instant and I was battling two men.<p>

"By the power of God stop this!" It was Father Doyle and Father Michaels calling out in unison. I looked over and saw them both brandishing crucifixes. "By the power of Christ we command you to stop."

Their appearance started Jack enough for me to topple him off balance. Without thinking, I kicked him hard in the solar plexius and he fell, unceremoniously into the open grave.  
>"No!" Mason shouted. He grabbed at my throat.<p>

"Watson!"

Holmes' voice spurred me and I fought valiantly against Mason. We tossed and tumbled, punching and kicking. He threw my body against the open grave and I hung over the green mixture dangerously.

"You're both going to die Doctor," Mason said shrilly. "I'm going to see to it."

"I'll see you burn in hell." I pushed forward and then, with strength I didn't know I had, threw him over my body and into the green mixture. He screamed in agony. Suddenly, screams filled the air, unholy shrieks and terrors. I grabbed the stick from where it had fallen and broke it over my knee. The shouting reached a crescendo and I felt to the ground, covering my ears with my hands to stop the unholy screams. I closed my eyes and snippets of a prayer I had learned in my youth suddenly came to me. "Our Father who art in Heaven, Hallowed me thy name."


	21. Chapter 21

**The final installment to the "Adventure of the Missing Priest." Thanks to all those who have followed this story and who have joined me on Holmes and Watson's adventure. Please let me know what you think by R&R. **

* * *

><p>After several long moments, the screams stopped and all grew ominously quiet. Slowly I opened my eyes to find the ground no longer glowing and the grave was merely an empty void in the earth.<p>

"Doctor Watson!" It was Father Doyle's voice. "Doctor Watson, come quick!"

I rose on less then steady legs and saw the dark lantern several feet from where I stood. In the lantern's glow, was a pale, unconscious Sherlock Holmes. I ran over to him and felt for a pulse. It was highly elevated.

"Holmes," I said gently. "Holmes." I shook him hard. He was unresponsive.

"Give me your holy water," I said to Father Doyle. "Where's Father Michaels?"  
>"Over there. He's with Father O'Brien."<p>

I knew I needed to tend to the priest, but didn't care at that moment.

Father Doyle thrust holy water into my hand, and I threw it on my friend's face. He opened his eyes and stared wildly at me.

"Get away from me! Get away from me!" He raised his arms as though to shield off my attack. "Get away!" His voice was nearly a hysterical pitch and he tried to back away from me. "Get away from me!"

"Holmes! Holmes!" I shouted at him. "Holmes it's me. It's Watson!"

"You died!" He shrieked. "You killed yourself. Get away from me!"

I grabbed his face roughly with my two hands. He closed his eyes so as to not see my face. "Sherlock," I said as gently as I could. The name was painful for me to say. "Sherlock, look at me. Open your eyes and look at me."

"I saw you—"

"You saw nothing," I said softly. "Look at me. It's John Watson. Your friend."

Very slowly, he opened his eyes and he stared, terrified, into my face. "You're—"

"I'm alive, very much alive. I swear it on," I swallowed, "my wife's eternal soul. Do you believe me?"

He hesitated. "Watson?"

"I know not what you saw," I said. "I know I am here."

He looked around wildly. His eyes seeing everything, his mind comprehending nothing.

"Come," I said. Very slowly, I helped my friend to stand. I gripped his arms tightly, preventing him from falling. "Let's get you to Baker Street."

He nodded.

"Father Doyle, Father Michaels. Fetch a cab, let's go back to Baker Street."

"What about Father O'Brien?"

I hesitated. "Order him to come with us. Keep telling him what to do, as though you are speaking to a slow child."

I held onto Holmes and helped him very slowly reach the rectory. We secured a growler and hurried, all of us, to Baker Street.

I helped Holmes up the seventeen steps and into his own room. I helped him undress for he was to dazed to do so, and then I got my medical bag. He was trembling uncontrollably and his eyes were wild with terror.

"It's okay Holmes," I said. I drew a measure of Morphine into my syringe and injected it into his bloodstream. He let out a shaky breath. I helped him to lie back in his bed and drew the covers around him. "Rest easy."

I rose to go, but his hand gripped mine hard. I stared down into his eyes. "Watson?"

"I'll stay until you're sleeping," I said to him. I smoothed back his hair. "It's all right Holmes."

I stayed in his room, until his eyelids fluttered closed and his breathing evened out. I quietly left his room and went into the sitting room with the three priests. I quickly checked the pulse and respiration of Father O'Brien, and to my joy, found the slightest indications. I knew he was slowly coming out of the drug induced stupor that he had found himself in.

I grabbed my medical bag and treated several cuts and abrasions, including a rather large gash across this throat, which although terrifying to look at, was not deep enough to be dangerous. I poured three glasses of brandy and handed a glass to Father Michaels and Father O'Brien. We drank in silence and stared at each other with terrified eyes. I wanted nothing more then to be left alone with my thoughts, but knew I had a duty to our client as well as the man who was now under my medical care. I think stoked a fire and sat in my chair.

"Doctor Watson?"

"Yes Father Michaels?"

"Is Father O'Brien going to be—"

"Yes, he will be fine. When he comes round, I'll check him over before you return to the rectory."

"Thank you."

We once again lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

"Is your friend all right?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I've made him comfortable. My mind is reeling."

"What happened?"

I slowly told the priests all I had seen and experienced. When I had finished both priests crossed themselves.

"You came face to face with Satan and his demons. Surely you know that."

I thought of the terror of my wife clutching my crucifix and then shrieking back in terror. "My wife," I swallowed hard. "Is she…" I felt tears burn in my eyes. "Because of what I've seen, is she damned?"

Father Doyle grasped my hands in his. "No Doctor Watson," he said softly. "That was not your wife. Sometimes, when Satan lurks near us, he takes the shape of those we hold most dear. He thinks he'll more easily sway you. You need to take heart Doctor, that you wife is a creature of God, not the devil."

I nodded, the memory of the evening still fresh on my mind.

"Would you like to pray Doctor Watson, for your wife and child?"

Although I hadn't prayed since I was a child, I found myself nodding. Both priests grabbed either of my hands and we lowered our heads. While I did not know the words, I found the whispered tones very comforting and some of my fears ebbing back to the dark recesses of my mind. I closed my eyes and allowed their words of comfort to wash over me. After a time, I slowly raised my head and found my eyes wet with tears.

"God bless you Doctor Watson," Father Michaels said, "and your friend."

"Would it be possible," I said, thinking of the girls in the cemetery, "to have another funeral service for the Southerland girls?"

"Of course," Father Michaels said. "I will preside over it myself."

"If you will excuse me then," I rose to my desk and wrote a quick telegram to James Southerland. After I sent the boy round with it, I returned to the sitting room, only to find Father O'Brien looking around wildly.

"Father O'Brien," I said with a smile. "Don't over do it. Sit down, I'm a doctor, let me examine you."

He was severely dehydrated and in desperate need of food. I ordered Father Michaels to take him back to the rectory and see that he had something to eat and drink. After we told Father O'Brien of his ordeal, they took their leave of us.

When I returned to the sitting room, I closed my eyes and leaned heavily against the chair. I knew what I needed to do, and hesitated. I knew when Holmes awoke, he'd need me there, to reassure him. And yet, I needed to see my wife. The desire was building in me since the cab ride and it took of my strength to keep myself from running through the door and getting a hansom.

As if on cue to end my suffering, I heard the floorboards creak and saw a very pale and shaken Sherlock Holmes enter the sitting room. On less then steady legs, he took himself to the sideboard and fortified himself with a large tumbler of brandy. When he finished it, he quickly refilled his glass. Taking his glass with him, he took his accustomed seat across from me. We sat in a tense silence for several minutes.

"How're you feeling?" I asked at length.

"Like I've just been loosed from Hell, although," he said with a bitter laugh, "that might not be very far from the truth."

"Fathers Doyle, Michaels and O'Brien just left."

He nodded but said nothing and stared hard into the burning fire. He reached into the pockets of his dressing gown and pulled out his cigarette case. He went to light it, but his hands were trembling too much to do so.

"Here," I said getting up from my chair and taking the match, "let me do it."

He inhaled the smoke gratefully and watched me from beneath deeply hooded eyes as I took my chair.

"You have something you want to do," he said at length.

"What?"

"Ever since I have come in here, you have glanced at the clock and also at the door. If there's something so bloody pressing that you need to accomplish, by all means do so."

I was surprised by his acerbic tone. "It's not pressing."

"Then what is it?"

I took a deep breath. "I want to visit my wife."

He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"After what happened I feel as though—"

"After what happened? Yes perhaps you can tell me what happened Doctor Watson. You can tell me how you're still alive when I watched you die!"

I took a deep breath and slowly told him all that had transpired. When I finished, he was pale faced and quiet. After several long, agonizing moments, he looked at me. "I saw you kill yourself and you told me it was my fault." He swallowed, and in spite of his best efforts, he could not keep the tears out of his eyes. "Never before have I ever felt so helpless."

"I'm here Holmes." I smiled. "I'm here."

"What did you see?"

"I don't want to recall it."

"Please? I need to know I'm not the only one who feels as though he is going mad."

I took a deep breath and told him all I had seen. His face, if possible, grew even paler. When I finished, I wiped my eyes frantically.

"And that is why you want to visit the late Mrs. Watson?"

"Yes Holmes."

He nodded but said nothing. After a time, he looked at me. "Why did you leave them to save me?"

"It wasn't my wife. I never had a child I could hold."

"But you didn't think that then."

"I wanted to stay with them Holmes. I wanted to go with them more then anything in the world. I would have traded everything, including my immortal soul, to have stayed in that moment forever. But when I heard you in danger—I could not go through the pain of losing you again. I swore to you I'd be always by your side, and I meant that Holmes, no matter what the personal cost."

He looked at me then, and in a rare gesture, he extended his hand into the space. I grabbed his. "Good old Watson," he said to me with a small smile. "My dear, dear fellow. Go to your wife old fellow," he said at length. "Go and pay her my respects as well."

I took a cab then, to the cemetery and found my wife's grave. I stared at it for some long moments and traced her name with my fingers. "Mary…" The roses Holmes and I had left were still there. Silently, I spoke to my wife and unborn child, and silently I felt them answer. It was a strange intimacy at their grave and I felt oddly comforted. I stayed there, until the first rays of sunlight shown in the sky. I then kissed the stone, telling them how I loved them and returned to Baker Street.

I found Holmes with his violin tucked under his chin playing a rather sad melody. I quietly divested my coat and sat in my chair, listening to the violin be played by the best and wisest man I have ever known and allowed the horrors of the past two weeks to fade away into the recesses of my mind. As the sun came up, a new day dawned, and I wondered what new adventures it had in store.


End file.
